




Class 

Book_ 

Copyright N° 


COKRIGHT DEPGSffi 










17 1884 






% 







Moond yne 


& fetor? from tljc fljnoer^orlD. 


BY 

JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 
«« 




ROBERTS BROTHERS. 
1883. 





Copyright , 1879 , 

By John Boyle O’Reilly. 


University Press: 

John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 


ALL WHO ARE IN PRISON 
2 ©eiJicate tfjts Book. 


JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY. 






































































V 


CONTENTS. 


Book jFitBt 

THE GOLD MINE OF THE VASSE. 

Page 

I. The Land of the Red Line 1 

II. The Convict Road Party 5 

III. Number 406 11 

IV. Bond and Free 15 

V. The Koagulup Swamp 19 

VI. The Bribe . . . 21 

VII. The Iron-stone Mountains 25 

VIII. The King of the Vasse 30 

IX. A Dark Night and Day 34 

X. On the Trail 40 

Book Secontu 

THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 

I. The Mate of the Canton 49 

II. Countermining the Miner * 69 

III. The Sandalwood Agency 63 

IV. The Teamster’s Tavern 66 

V. In Search of his Sorrow 73 

VI. The Door of the Cell 76 

VII. Millbank 84 

VIII. Sir Joshua Hobb’s Convict Mill . 94 

IX. Mr. Wyville 99 

X. The Upas-Tree . 107 


CONTENTS. 


vi 

3Sooft Cfjtrb. 

ALICE WALMSLEY. 

Page 

I. Miserere! 120 

II. A Flower in the Cell 129 

III. Following a Dark Spirit 141 

IY. Mr. Haggett 148 

Y. Two Heads against One 156 

VI. Female Transports 159 

VII. After Nine Years . . . 162 

Book jFourtjj. 

THE CONVICT SHIP. 

I. The Parliamentary Committee 166 

II. Harriet Draper 175 

III. A Captain for the Houguemont 184 

IV. Captain Samuel Draper 188 

V. Koro and Tepairu 193 

VL The Child’s Grave ’ .198 

VII. The Sailing of the Houguemont 204 

VIII. Face to Face 207 

IX. How a Prisoner might break a Bar *212 

X. Dead-Sea Fruit 221 

XI. The Fever 228 

XII. Husband and Wife . 234 

XIII. Woman’s Love and Hatred 239 

XIV. The Darkness of Desolation 245 

XV. The New Penal Law 248 

XVI. A Prisoner at Large 254 


CONTENTS. 


vii 

Book jFtftfj. 

THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 

Page 

I. Alice Walmsley’s New Home 257 

II. Sooner or later a Man must face his Sins ..... 262 

III. Walking in the Shadow 268 

IV. The Meeting 275 

V. Mr. Wy ville faces a Storm 283 

VI. The Valley of the Vasse 290 

VII. The Convict’s Pass 298 

VIII. The Bush Fire 304 





































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MOONDYNE, 


BOOK FIRST. 

THE GOLD MINE OF THE YASSE. 


I. 

THE LAND OF THE RED LINE. 

Western Australia is a vast and unknown coun- 
try, almost mysterious in its solitude and unlikeness to 
any other part of the earth. It is the greatest of the 
Australias in extent, and in many features the richest 
and loveliest. 

But the sister colonies of Victoria, New South 
Wales, and Queensland, are famous for their treasure 
of gold. Men from all lands have flocked thither to 
gather riches. They care not for the slow labor of the 
farmer or grazier. Let the weak and the old, the cow- 
ard and the dreamer, prune the vine and dry the 
figs, and wait for the wheat to ripen. Strong men 
must go to the trial — must set muscle against muscle, 
and brain against brain in the mine and the market. 

Men’s lives are short; and unless they gather gold 
in the mass, how shall they wipe out the primal curse 
of poverty before the hand loses its skill and the heart 
its strong desire ? 

Western Australia is the Cinderella of the South. 
She has no gold like her sisters. To her was given 

1 


2 


MOONDYNE. 


the servile and unhappy portion. The dregs of British 
society were poured upon her soil. The robber and 
the manslayer were sent thither. Her territory was 
marked off with a Bed Line. She has no markets for 
honest men, and no ports for honest ships. Her laws 
are not the laws of other countries, but the terrible 
rules of the menagerie. Her citizens have no rights : 
they toil their lives out at heavy tasks, hut earn no 
wages, nor own a vestige of right in the soil they till. 
It is a land of slaves and bondmen — the great Penal 
Colony of Great Britain. 

“ There is no gold in the Western Colony,” said the 
miners contemptuously ; “ let the convicts keep the 
land — but let them observe our Red Line.” 

So the convicts took the defamed country, and lived 
and died there, and others were transported there from 
England to replace those who died, and every year the 
seething ships gave up their addition to the terrible 
population. 

In time the Western Colony came to be regarded as 
a plague-spot, where no man thought of going, and no 
man did go unless sent in irons. 

If the miners from Victoria and Hew South Wales, 
however, had visited the penal land some years after 
its establishment, they would have heard whispers of 
strange import — rumors and questions of a great 
golden secret possessed by the Western Colony. Ho 
one could tell where the rumor began or on what it 
was based, except perhaps the certainty that gold was 
not uncommon among the natives of the colony, who 
had little or no intercourse with the aborigines of the 
gold-yielding countries of the South and East. 

The belief seemed to hover in the air ; and it settled 
with dazzling conviction on the crude and abnormal 
minds of the criminal population. At their daily toil 
in the quarries or on the road-parties, no rock was 
blasted nor tree uprooted that eager eyes did not hun- 


THE GOLD MINE OF THE VASSE. 


3 


grily scan the upturned earth. At night, when the 
tired wretches gathered round the camp-fire outside 
their prison hut, the dense mahogany forest closing 
weirdly round the white-clad group, still the undis- 
covered gold was the topic earnestly discussed. And 
even the government officers and the few free settlers 
became after a time filled with the prevailing expect- 
ancy and disquiet. 

But years passed, and not an ounce of gold was 
discovered in the colony. The Government had offered 
reward to settlers or ticket-of-leave men who would 
find the first nugget or gold-bearing rock ; but no claim- 
ant came forward. 

Still, there remained the tantalizing fact, — for, in the 
course of years, fact it had grown to be, — that gold was 
to be found in the colony, and in abundance. The native 
bushmen were masters of the secret, but neither bribe 
nor torture could wring it from them. Terrible stories 
were whispered among the convicts, of attempts that 
had been made to force the natives to give up the 
precious secret. Gold was common amongst these 
bushmen. Armlets and anklets had been seen on men 
and women ; and some of their chief men, it was said, 
wore breast-plates and enormous chains of hammered 
gold. 

At last the feeling in the West grew to fever 
heat; and in 1848, the Governor of the Penal Colony 
issued a proclamation, copies of which were sent by 
native runners to every settler and ticket-of-leave man, 
and were even surreptitiously distributed amongst the 
miners on the other side of the Bed Line. 

This proclamation intensified the excitement. It 
seemed to bring the mine nearer to every man in the 
colony. It was a formal admission that there really 
was a mine ; it dispelled the vague uncertainty, and 
left an immediate hunger or greed in the minds of the 
population. 


4 


MOONDYNE. 


The proclamation read as follows : — 



£ 5,000 REWARD! 

The above Reward will be paid for the 
discovery of the Mine from which the 
Natives of the Vasse obtain their Cold. 

A Free Pardon will be granted to the 
Discoverer, should he be of the Bond 
Class. 

No Reward will be given nor terms 
made with Absconders from the Prisons 
or Road-Parties. 

By Order, 

F. R. HAMPTON, 

Governor. 

Official Residence, 

Perth , 28th June , 1848 . 


But nothing came of it. Not an ounce of gold was 
ever taken from the earth. At last men began to 
avoid the subject. They could not bear to be tanta- 
lized nor tortured by the splendid delusion. Some said 
there was no mine in the Yasse, and others that, if 
there were a mine, it was known only to a few of the 
native chiefs, who dealt out the raw gold to their 
people. 

For eight years this magnificent reward had re- 
mained unclaimed, and now its terms were only re- 
called at the fires of the road-making convicts, or in 
the lonely slab-huts of the mahogany sawyers, who 
were all ticket-of-leave men. 


THE GOLD MINE OF THE YASSE. 


5 


II 

THE CONVICT ROAD-PARTY. 

It was a scorching day in midsummer — a few days 
before Christmas. 

Had there been any moisture in the hush it would 
have steamed in the heavy heat. During the mid-day 
hours not a bird stirred among the mahogany and gum 
trees. On the flat tops of the low banksia the round 
heads of the white cockatoos could be seen in thou- 
sands, motionless as the trees themselves. Not a 
parrot had the vim to scream. The chirping insects 
were silent. Not a snake had courage to rustle his 
hard skin against the hot and dead bush-grass. The 
bright-eyed iguanas were in their holes. The mahog- 
any sawyers had left their logs and were sleeping in 
the cool sand of their pits. Even the travelling ants 
had halted on their wonderful roads, and sought the 
shade of a bramble. 

All free things were at rest; hut the penetrating 
click of the axe, heard far through the bush, and now 
and again a harsh word of command, told that it was 
a land of bondmen. 

From daylight to dark, through the hot noon as 
steadity as in the cool evening, the convicts were at 
work on the roads — the weary work that has no 
wages, no promotion, no incitement, no variation for 
good or bad, except stripes for the laggard. 

Along the verge of the Koagulup Swamp — one of 
the greatest and dismalest of the wooded lakes of the 
country, its black water deep enough to float a man- 
of-war, — a party of oonvicts were making a govern- 
ment road. They were cutting their patient way into 
a forest only traversed before by the aborigine and the 
absconder. 


6 


MOONDYNE. 


Before them in the bush, as in their lives, all was 
dark and unknown — tangled underbrush, gloomy 
shadows, and noxious things. Behind them, clear and 
open, lay the straight road they had made — leading 
to and from the prison. 

Their camp, composed of rough slab-huts, was some 
two hundred miles from the main prison of the colony 
on the Swan Biver, at Fremantle, from which radiate 
all the roads made by the bondmen. 

The primitive history of the colony is written for- 
ever in its roads. There is in this penal labor a secret 
of value to be utilized more fully by a wiser civiliza- 
tion. England sends her criminals to take the brunt 
of the new land’s hardship and danger — to prepare 
the way for honest life and labor. In every commu- 
nity there is either dangerous or degrading work to be 
done : and who so fit to do it as those who have for- 
feited their liberty by breaking the. law ? 

The convicts were dressed in white trousers, blue 
woollen shirt, and white hat, — every article stamped 
with England’s private mark — the Broad Arrow. 
They were young men, healthy and strong, their faces 
and bare arms burnt to the color of mahogany. Burg- 
lars, murderers, garotters, thieves, — double-dyed law- 
breakers every one — but, for all that, kind-hearted 
and manly fellows enough were among them. 

“ I tell you, mates,” said one, resting on his spade, 
“this is going to be the end of Moondyne Joe. That 
firing in the swamp last night was his last fight.” 

“ I don’t think it was Moondyne,” said another ; 
“he’s at work in the chain-gang at Fremantle; and 
there ’s no chance of escape there ” 

“ Sh-h ! ” interrupted the first speaker, a powerful, 
low-browed fellow, named Dave Terrell, who acted as a 
sort of foreman to the gang. The warder in charge of 
the party was slowly walking past. When he was out 
of hearing Dave continued, in a low but deeply earnest 


THE GOLD MINE OF THE YASSE. 7 

voice : “ I know it was Moondyne, mates. 1 saw him 
last night when I went to get the turtle’s eggs. I met 
him face to face in the moonlight, beside the swamp.” 

Every man held his hand and breath with intense 
interest in the story. Some looked incredulous — 
heads were shaken in doubt. 

“ Did you speak to him ? ” asked one. 

“ Ay,” said Terrell, turning on him ; “ why shouldn’t 
I ? Moondyne knew he had nothing to fear from me,' 
and I had nothing to fear from him.” 

“ What did you say to him ? ” asked another. 

“ Say ? — I stood an’ looked at him for a minute, for 
his face had a white look in the moonlight, and then I 
walked up close to him, and I. says — ‘Be you Moon- 
dyne Joe, or his ghost ? ’ ” 

“ Ay ? ” said the gang with one breath. 

“ Ay, I said that, never fearing, for Moondyne Joe, 
dead or alive, would never harm a prisoner.” 

“ But what did he answer ? ” asked the eager crowd. 

“ He never said a word ; but he laid his finger on 
his lips, like this, and waved his hand as if he warned 
me to go back to the camp. I turned to go ; then I 
looked back once, and he was standing just as I left 
him, but he was looking up at the sky, as if there was 
some’at in the moon that pleased him.” 

The convicts worked silently, each thinking on what 
he had heard. 

“He mightn’t ha’ been afraid, though,” said low- 
br owed Dave ; “ I’d let them cut my tongue out be- 
fore I ’d sell the Moondyne.” 

“ Tha£ ’s true,” said several of the gang, and many 
kind looks were given to Terrell. A strong bond of 
sympathy, it was evident, existed between these men 
and the person of whom they spoke. 

A sound from the thick bush interrupted the con- 
versation. The convicts looked up from their work, 
and beheld a strange procession approaching from the 


8 


MOONDYNE. 


direction of the swamp. It consisted of about a dozen 
or fifteen persons, most of whom were savages. In 
front rode two officers of the Convict Service, a ser- 
geant, and a private trooper, side by side, with drawn 
swords ; and between their horses, manacled by the 
wrists to their stirrup-irons, walked a white man. 

“ Here they come,” hissed Terrell, with a bitter mal- 
ediction, his low brow wholly disappearing into a ter- 
rible ridge above his eyes. “ They haven’t killed him, 
after all. 0, mates, what a pity it is to see a man 
like Moondyne in that plight.” 

“ He ’s done for two or three of ’em,” muttered 
another, in a tone of grim gratification. “ Look at the 
loads behind. I knew he wouldn’t be taken this time 
like a cornered cur.” 

Following the prisoner came a troop of “ natives,” 
as the aboriginal bushmen are called, bearing three 
spearwood litters with the bodies of wounded men. 
A villanous-looking savage, mounted on a troop-horse, 
brought up the rear. His dress was like that of his 
pedestrian fellows, upon whom, however, he looked in 
disdain, — a short boka, or cloak of kangaroo-skin, and 
a belt of twisted fur cords round his naked body. In 
addition, he had a police-trooper’s old cap, and a heavy 
“ regulation ” revolver stuck in his belt. 

This was the tracker, the human bloodhound, used 
by the troopers to follow the trail of absconding 
prisoners. 

When the troopers neared the convict-party, the ser- 
geant, a man whose natural expression, whatever it 
might have been, was wholly obliterated by a frightful 
scar across his face, asked for water. The natives 
halted, and squatted silently in a group. The wounded 
men moaned as the litters were lowered. 

Dave Terrell brought the water. He handed a pan- 
nikin to the sergeant, and another to the private trooper, 
and filled a third. 


THE GOLD MINE OF THE VASSE. 


9 


H Who ’s that for ? ” harshly demanded the sergeant. 

“ For Moondyne,” said the convict, approaching the 
chained man, whose neck was stretched toward the 
brimming cup. 

“ Stand back, curse you ! ” said the sergeant, bringing 
his sword flat on the convict’s back. “ That scoundrel 
needs no water. He drinks blood.” 

There was a taunt in the tone, even beneath the 
brutality of the words. 

“ Carry your pail to those litters,” growled the sinis- 
ter-looking sergeant, “ and keep your mouth closed, if 
you value your hide. There ! ” he said in a suppressed 
voice, flinging the few drops he had left in the face of 
the manacled man, “ that ’s water enough for you, till 
you reach Bunbury prison to-morrow.” 

The face of the prisoner hardly changed. He gave one 
straight look into the sergeant's eyes, then turned away, 
and seemed to look far away through the bush. He 
was a remarkable being, as he stood there. In strength 
and proportion of body the man was magnificent — a 
model for a gladiator. He was of middle height, young, 
but so stern and massively featured, and so browned 
and beaten by exposure, it was hard to determine his 
age. His clothing was only a few torn and bloody 
rags ; but he looked as if his natural garb were utter 
nakedness or the bushman’s cloak, so loosely and care- 
lessly hung the shreds of cloth on his bronzed body. 
A large, finely shaped head, with crisp, black hair and 
beard, a broad, square forehead, and an air of power 
and self-command, — this was the prisoner, this was 
Moondyne Joe. 

Who or what was the man ? An escaped convict. 
What had he been ? Perhaps a robber or a mutineer, 
or maybe he had killed a man in the white heat of 
passion ; no one knew — no one cared to know. 

That question is never asked in the penal colony. 
No caste there. They have found bottom, where all 


10 


MOONDYNE. 


stand equal. No envy there, no rivalry, no greed nor 
ambition, and no escape from companionship. They 
constitute the purest democracy on earth. The only 
distinction to be won — that of being trustworthy, or 
selfish and false. The good man is he who is kind and 
true ; the bad man is he who is capable of betraying a 
confederate. 

It may be the absence of the competitive elements of 
social life that accounts for the number of manly char- 
acters to be met among these outcasts. 

It is by no means in the superior strata of society 
that abound the strong, true natures, the men that may 
be depended upon, the primitive rocks of humanity. 
The complexities of social life beget cunning and arti- 
ficiality. Among penal convicts there is no ground for 
envy, ambition, or emulation ; nothing to be gained by 
falsehood in any shape. 

But all this time the prisoner stands looking away 
into the bush, with the drops of insult trickling from 
his strong face. His self-command evidently irritated 
the brutal officer, who, perhaps, expected to hear him 
whine for better treatment. 

The sergeant dismounted to examine the handcuffs, 
and while doing so, looked into the man’s face with a 
leer of cruel exultation. He drew no expression from 
the steady eyes of the prisoner. 

There was an old score to be settled between those 
men, and it was plain that each knew the metal of the 
other. 

“ I ’ll break that look,” said the sergeant between 
his teeth, but loud enough for the prisoner’s ear ; “ curse 
you, I ’ll break it before we reach Fremantle.” Soon 
after he turned away, to look to the wounded men. 

. While so engaged, the private trooper made a furtive 
sign to the convict with the pail ; and he, keeping in 
shade of the horses, crept up and gave Moondyne a 
deep drink of the precious water. 


THE GOLD MINE OF THE VASSE. 


11 


The stem lines withdrew from the prisoner’s mouth 
and forehead ; and as he gave the kindly trooper a 
glance of gratitude, there was something strangely gen- 
tle and winning in the face. 

The sergeant returned and mounted. The litters were 
raised by the natives, and the party resumed their 
march, striking in on the new road that led to the 
prison. 

“ May the lightning split him,” hissed black-browed 
Dave, after the sergeant. “ There ’s not an officer in 
the colony will strike a prisoner without cause, except 
that coward, and he was a convict himself.” 

“ May the Lord help Moondyne Joe this day,” said 
another, “for he’s chained to the stirrup of the only 
man living that hates him.” 

The sympathizing gang looked after the party till 
they were hidden by a bend of the road ; but they were 
silent under the eye of their warder. 


III. 

NUMBER 406. 

Some years before, the prisoner, now called Moon- 
dyne Joe, had arrived in the colony. He was a youth 
— little more than a boy in years. From the first day of 
his imprisonment he had followed one course : he was 
quiet, silent, patient, obedient. He broke no rules of 
the prison. He asked no favors. He performed all 
his own work, and often helped another who grumbled 
at his heavy task. 

He was simply known to his fellow-convicts as Joe, 
his other name was unknown or forgotten. When the 
prison roll was called, he answered to No. 406. 

In the first few years he had made many friends in 


12 


MOONDYNE. 


the colony — but he had also made one enemy, and a 
deadly one. In the gang to which he belonged was a 
man named Isaac Bowman, one of those natures seem- 
ingly all evil, envious, and cruel, detested by the basest, 
yet self-contained, full of jibe and derision, satisfied 
with his own depravity, and convinced that every one 
was secretly just as vile as he. 

From the first, this fellow had disliked and sneered 
at Joe, and Joe having long observed the man’s cur- 
like character, had at last adopted a system of conduct 
toward him that saved himself annoyance, but secretly 
intensified the malevolence of the other. He did not 
avoid the fellow ; but he never looked at him, saw him, 
spoke to him, — not even answering him when he 
spoke, as if he had not heard him. 

This treatment was observed and enjoyed by the 
other prisoners, and sometimes even adopted by them- 
selves toward Bowman. At last its effect on the evil 
nature was too powerful to be concealed. With the 
others he could return oath for oath, or jibe for jibe, 
and always came off pleased with himself; but Joe’s 
silent contumely stung him like a scorpion. 

The convicts at length saw that Bowman, who was 
a man capable of any crime, held a deep hatred for 
Joe, and they warned him to beware. But he smiled, 
and went on just as before. 

One morning a poor settler rode into the camp with 
a cry for justice and vengeance. His hut was only a 
few miles distant, and in his absence last night a deed 
of rapine and robbery had been perpetrated there — 
and the robber was a convict. 

A search was made in the prisoners’ hut, and in one 
of the hammocks was found some of the stolen prop- 
erty. The man who owrned the hammock was seized and 
ironed, protesting his innocence. Further evidence was 
found against him — he had been seen returning to the 
camp that morning — Isaac Bowman had seen him. 


THE GOLD MINE OF THE YASSE. 13 

Swift and summary is the dread punishment of the 
penal code. As the helpless wretch was dragged away, 
a word of mock pity followed him from Bowman. 
During the scene, Joe had stood in silence ; but at 
the brutal jibe he started as if struck by a whip. He 
sprang on Isaac Bowman suddenly — dashed him to 
the ground, and, holding him there like a worm, shook 
from his clothing all the stolen property, except what 
the caitiff had concealed in his fellow’s bed to insure 
his conviction. 

Then and there the sentence was given. The villain 
was haled to the triangles and flogged with embittered 
violence. He uttered no cry ; but as the hissing lashes 
swept his back, he settled a look of ghastly and mortal 
hatred on Joe, who stood by and counted the stripes. 

But this was years ago ; and Bowunan had long 
been a free man and a settler, having served out his 
sentence. 

At that time the laws of the Penal Colony were 
exceedingly cruel and unjust' to the bondmen. There 
was in the colony a number of “ free settlers ” and ex- 
convicts who had obtained land, and these, as a class, 
were men who lived half by farming and half by ras- 
cality. They sold brandy to the convicts and ticket- 
of-leave men, and robbed them when the drugged 
liquor had done its work. They feared no law, for the 
word of a prisoner was dead in the courts. 

The crying evil of the code was the power it gave 
these settlers to take from the prisons as many men as 
they chose, and work them as slaves on their clearings. 
While so employed, the very lives of these convicts 
were at the mercy of their taskmasters, who possessed 
over them all the power of prison officers. 

A report made by an employer against a convict 
insured a flogging or a number of years in the terrible 
chain-gang at Fremantle. The system reeked with 
cruelty and the blood of men. It would startle our 


14 


MOONDYNE. 


commonplace serenity to see the record of the lives 
that were sacrificed to have it repealed. 

Under this law, it came to Joe’s turn to be sent out 
on probation. Application had been made for him by 
a farmer, whose “ range ” was in a remote district. Joe 
was a strong and willing worker, and he was glad of 
the change; but when he was taken to the lonely 
place, he could not help a shudder when he came face 
to face with his new employer and master — Isaac 
Bowman. 

There was no doubting the purpose of the villain 
who had now’ complete possession of him. He meant 
to drive him into rebellion — to torture him till his 
hate was gratified, and then to have him flogged and 
sent to the chain-gang ; and from the first minute of 
his control he began to carry out his purpose. 

For two years the strong man toiled like a brute at 
the word of his driver, returning neither scoff nor 
scourge. 

Joe had years to serve ; and he had made up his 
mind to serve them, and be free. He knew there was 
no escape — that one report from Bowman would wipe 
out all record of previous good conduct. He knew, 
too, that Bowman meant to destroy him, and he re- 
solved to bear toil and abuse as long as he was able. 

He . was able longer than most men ; but the cup 
was filled at last. The day came when the worm 
turned — when the quiet, patient man blazed into 
dreadful passion, and, tearing the goad from the ty- 
rant’s hand, he dashed him, maimed and senseless, to 
the earth. 

The blow given, Joe’s passion calmed, and the ruin 
of the deed stared him in the face. There was no 
court of justice in which he might plead. He had 
neither word nor oath nor witnesses. The man might 
be dead ; and even if he recovered, the punishment 
was the lash and the chain-gang, or the gallows. 


THE GOLD MINE OF THE YASSE. 15 

Then and there, Joe struck into, the bush with a 
resolute face, and next day the infuriate and baffled 
rascal, rendered ten-fold more malignant by a dreadful 
disfigurement, reported him to the prison as an ab* 
sconder, a robber, and an attempted murderer. 


IY. 

BOND AND FREE. 

Three years passed. It was believed that Joe had 
perished in the bush. Bowman had entered the con- 
vict service as a trooper, but even his vigilance brought 
no discovery. Absconders are generally found after a 
few months, prowling around the settlements for food, 
and are glad to be retaken. 

But Joe was no common criminal nor common 
man. When he set his face toward the bush, he 
meant to take no half measures. The bush was to be, 
his home. He knew of nothing to draw him back, 
and he cared not if he never saw the face of a white 
man again. He was sick of injustice and hardship — 
sick of all the ways of the men he had known. 

Prison life had developed a strong nature in Joe. 
Naturally powerful in mind, body, and passions, he had 
turned the power in on himself, and had obtained a 
rare mastery over his being. He was a thoughtful man, 
a peacemaker, and a lover of justice. He had obtained 
an extraordinary hold on the affection of the convicts. 
They all knew him. He was true as steel to every- 
thing he undertook; and they knew that, too. He 
was enormously strong. One day lie was working in 
the quarries of Fremantle with twenty others in a 
deep and narrow ledge. Sixteen men were at work 
below, and four were preparing a blast at the head of 


16 


MOONDYNE. 


the ledge, which ran down at an angle of fifty degrees, 
like a channel cut in the solid rock. The men below 
were at the bottom of the channel. A pebble dropped 
by the four men above would have dashed into their 
midst. 

Suddenly there was a cry above, sharp, short, 
terrible, — “ Look out , down there ! ” 

One of the half-filled charges had exploded with a 
sullen, mischievous puff, and the rocks at the head of 
the ledge were lifted and loosened. One immense 
block barred the tumbling mass from the men below. 
But the increasing weight above grew irresistible — 
the great stone was yielding — it had moved several 
inches, pressed on from behind. The men who had 
been working at the place fled for their lives, only 
sending out the terrible cry to their fellows below, — 

“ Look out , down there ! ” 

But those below could only look out — they could not 
get out. There was no way out but by the rising chan- 
nel of the ledge. And down that channel would thun- 
der in a quarter of minute the murderous rocks that 
were pushing the saving stone before them. 

Three of the men above escaped in time. They 
dared not look behind — as they clung to the quarry- 
side, out of danger, they closed their eyes, waiting for 
the horrible crash. 

But it did not come. They waited ten seconds, then 
looked around. A man stood at the head of the ledge, 
right before the moving mass — a convict — Moondyne 
J oe. He had a massive crowbar in his hands, and was 
strongly working to get a purchase on the great stone 
that blocked the way, but which actually swayed on 
the verge of the steep decline. At last the bar caught — 
the purchase was good — the stone moved another inch, 
and the body of the man bent like a strong tree under 
the awful strain. But he held back the stone. 

He did not *ay a word — he did not look below — he 


THE GOLD MINE OF THE VASSE. 


17 


knew they would see the precious moment and escape. 
They saw it, and, with chilled hearts at the terrible 
danger, they fled up the ledge, and darted past the man 
who had risked his own life to save theirs. 

Another instant, and the roar went down the ledge, 
as if the hungry rocks knew they had been baffled. 

Moondyne Joe escaped — the bar saved him. When 
the crash came, the bar was driven across an angle in 
the ledge, and held there, and he was within the angle. 
He was mangled and bruised — but life and limb were 
safe. 

This was one of several instances that proved his 
character, and made him trusted and loved of his 
fellow-convicts. 

Whatever was his offence against the law, he had 
received its bitter lesson. The worst of the convicts 
grew better when associated with him. Common 
sense, truth, and kindness were Joe’s principles. He 
was a strong man, and he pitied and helped those 
weaker than himself. ' He was a bold man, and he 
understood the timid. He was a brave man, and he 
grieved for a coward or a liar. He never preached ; 
but his healthy, straightforward life did more good to 
his fellows than all the hired Bible-readers in the 
colony. 

Ho wonder the natives to whom he fled soon began 
to look upon him with a strange feeling. Far into 
the mountains of the Yasse he had journeyed before 
he fell in with them. 

They were distrustful of all white men, but they 
soon trusted him. There was something in the simple 
savage mind not far removed from that of the men in 
prison, who had grown to respect, even to reverence 
his character. The natives saw him stronger and 
braver than any one they had ever known. He was 
more silent than their oldest chief ; and so wise, he 
settled disputes so that both sides were satisfied. 

2 


18 


MOONDYNE. 


They looked on him with distrust at first ; then with 
wonder ; then with respect and confidence ; and before 
two years were over, with something like awe and 
veneration, as for a superior being. 

They gave him the name of “ Moondyne,” — which 
had some meaning more than either manhood or 
kingship. 

His fame and name spread through the native tribes 
all over the country. When they came to the white 
settlements, the expression oftenest heard was “ Moon- 
dyne.” The convicts and settlers constantly heard the 
word, but dreamt not then of its significance. After- 
wards, when they knew to whom the name had been 
given, it became a current word throughout the 
colony. 

Toward the end of the third year of his freedom, 
when Moondyne and a party of natives were far from 
the mountains, they were surprised by a Government 
surveying party, who made him prisoner, knowing, of 
course, that he must be an absconder. He was taken 
to the main prison at Fremantle, and sentenced to 
the chain-gang for life ; but before he had reached the 
Swan Kiver every native in the colony knew that “ The 
Moondyne ” was a prisoner. 

The chain-gang of Fremantle is the depth of the 
penal degradation. The convicts wear from thirty to 
fifty pounds of iron, aecor(}ing to their offence. It is 
riveted on their bodies in the prison forge, and when 
they have served their time the great rings have to be 
chiselled off their calloused limbs. 

The chain-gang works outside the prison walls of 
Fremantle, in the granite quarries. The neighborhood, 
being thickly settled with pardoned men and ticket-of- 
leave men, had long been deserted by the aborigines ; 
but from the day of Moondyne’s sentence the bushmen 
began to build their myers and hold their corrobborees 
near the quarries. 


THE GOLD MINE OF THE YASSE. 


19 


For two years the chain-gang toiled among the 
stones, and the black men sat on the great unhewn 
rocks, and never seemed to tire of the scene. 

The warders took no notice of their silent presence. 
The natives never spoke to a prisoner, but sat there in 
dumb interest, every day in the year, from sunrise to 
evening. 

One day they disappeared from the quarries, and an 
officer who passed through their village of myers , 
found them deserted. It was quite a subject of inter- 
esting conversation among the warders. Where had 
they gone to ? Why had they departed in the night ? 

The day following, an answer came to these queries. 
When the chain-gang was formed, to return ter the 
prison, one link was gone — Moondyne was missing. 

His irons were found, filed through, behind the rock 
at which he worked ; and from that day the black face 
of a bushman was never seen in Fremantle. 


y. 

THE KOAGULUP SWAMP. 

We arrive now at the opening scene of this story. 
Eight days after his escape from Fremantle, Moondyne 
was seen by the convict Dave Terrell, on the shores of 
the Koagulup Swamp. In those eight days he had 
travelled two hundred miles, suffering that which is 
only known to the hunted convict. When he met the 
prisoner in the moonlight and made the motion to 
silence, Dave Terrell saw the long barrel of a pistol 
in his belt. He meant to sell his life this time, for 
there was no hope if retaken. 

His intention was to hide in the swamp till he 
found an opportunity of striking into the Vasse 


20 


MOONDYNE. 


Mountains, a spur of which was not more than sixty- 
miles distant. 

But the way of the absconder is perilous ; and swift 
as had been Moondyne’s flight, .the shadow of the 
pursuer was close behind. No tardy step was that of 
him who led the pursuit — a man with a terribly 
maimed face — a new officer of the penal system, but 
whose motive in the pursuit was deadlier and dearer 
than the love of public duty. 

On the very day that Moondyne Joe reached the 
great swamp, the mounted pursuit tracked the fugitive 
to the water’s edge. A few hours later, while he lay 
exhausted on an island in the densely- wooded morass, 
the long sedge was cautiously divided a few yards 
from his face, and the glittering eyes of a native 
tracker met his for an instant. Before he could spring 
to his feet the supple savage was upon him, sending out 
his bush-cry as he sprang. A short struggle, with the 
black hands on the white throat ; then the great 
white arms closed around the black body, and with a 
gasping sob it lost its nerve and lay still, while Moon- 
dyne half rose, to listen. 

From every point he heard the trackers closing on 
him. He sank back with a moan of despair. But 
the next instant the blood rushed from his heart with 
a new vigor for every muscle. 

It was the last breath of his freedom, and he 
would fight for it, as for his life. He sprang to his 
feet and met his first brutal assailant, a native dog, — 
half wolf, half greyhound, — which sprang at his 
throat, but sank its fangs in his shoulder. 

A bullet through the animal’s brain left him free 
again, with steadied nerves. Even in the excitement 
of the moment a thrill of gratitude that it was not a 
man that lay there passed through him. He flung his 
pistol into the swamp, and dashed toward the log on 
which he had gained the island. Beside it stood two 


THE GOLD MINE OF THE VASSE. 


21 


men, armed. Barehanded, the fugitive flung himself 
upon them, and closed in desperate struggle. It was 
vain, however ; others came and struck him down and 
overpowered him. 

He was put in irons, and found himself in charge of 
the most brutal officer in the penal service, — his old 
fellow-convict and employer, Isaac Bowman. 


YI. 

THE BRIBE. 

When the party had travelled a dozen miles from 
the convict camp, the evening closed, and the sergeant 
called a halt. A chain was passed round a tree, and 
locked ; and to this the manacles of the prisoner were 
made fast, leaving him barely the power of lying 
down. With a common prisoner this would have been 
security enough ; but the sergeant meant to leave no 
loophole open. He and the private trooper would 
keep guard all night ; and according to this order, after 
supper, the trooper entered on the first four hours’ 
watch. 

The natives and wounded men took their meal and 
were stretched on the soft sand beside another fire, 
about a hundred paces from the guard and prisoner. 

The tired men soon slept, all but the sentry and the 
captive. The sergeant lay within arm’s length of the 
prisoner ; and even from deep sleep awoke at the least 
movement of the chain. 

Toward midnight, the chained man turned his face 
toward the sentry, and motioned him to draw near. 
The rough, but kind-hearted fellow thought he asked 
for water, and softly brought him a pannikin, which he 
held to his lips. At the slight motion, the sergeant 


22 


MOONDYNE. 


awoke, and harshly reprimanded the trooper, posting 
him at a distance from the fire, with orders not to 
move till his watch had expired. The sergeant re- 
turned to his sleep, and again all was still. 

After a time the face of the prisoner was once more 
raised, and with silent lip but earnest expression he 
begged the sentry to come to him. But the man 
would not move. He grew angry at the persistence 
of the prisoner, who ceased not to look toward him, 
and who at last even ventured to speak in a low 
voice. At this, the fearful trooper grew alarmed, 
and sternly ordered him to rest. The sergeant awoke 
at the word, and shortly after relieved the trooper, 
seating himself by the fire to watch the remainder 
of the night. 

When the prisoner saw this, with a look of utter 
weariness, though not of resignation, he at last closed 
his eyes and sank to rest. Once having yielded to the 
fatigue which his strong will had hitherto mastered, he 
was unconscious. A deep and dreamless sleep fell on 
him. The sand was soft round his tired limbs, and for 
two or three hours the bitterness of his captivity was 
forgotten. 

He awoke suddenly, and, as if he had not slept, felt 
the iron on his wrists, and knew that he was chained 
to a tree like a wild beast. 

The sleep had given him new strength. He raised 
his head, and met the eyes of the sergeant watching 
him. The look between them was long and steady. 

“ Come here,” said the prisoner, in a low tone, “ I 
want to speak to you.” 

Had the gaunt dog beside him spoken, the sergeant 
could not have been more amazed. 

“ Come here,” repeated Moondyne. “ I have some- 
thing important to say to you.” 

The sergeant drew his revolver, examined the caps, 
and then moved toward his prisoner. 


THE GOLD MINE OF THE VASSE. 


23 


' r 1 heard you say you had spent twenty-five years 
in this colony,” said Moondyne, “ and that you might 
as well have remained a convict. Would you go away 
to another country, and live the rest of your life in 
wealth and power ? ” 

The sergeant stared at him as if he thought he had 
gone mad. The prisoner understood the look. 

“Listen,” he said impressively; “I am not mad. 
You know there is a reward offered for the discovery 
of the Yasse Gold Mine. I can lead you to the spot ! ” 

There was that in his voice and look that thrilled 
the sergeant to the marrow. He glanced at the sleep- 
ing trooper, and drew closer to the chained man. 

“ I know where that gold mine lies,” said Moondyne, 
reading the greedy face, “ where tons and shiploads of 
solid gold are waiting to he carried away. If you help 
me to be free, I will lead you to the mine.” 

The sergeant looked at him in silence. He arose 
and walked stealthily toward the natives, who were 
soundly sleeping. To and fro in the firelight, for 
nearly an hour, he paced, revolving the startling prop- 
osition. At last he approached the chained man. 

“ I have treated you badly, and you hate me ;” he 
said. “ How can I trust you ? How can you prove 
to me that this is true ? ” 

Moondyne met the suspicious eye steadily. “ I have 
no proof,” he said ; “ you must take my word. I tell 
you the truth. If I do not lead you straight to the 
mine, I will go back to Fremantle as your prisoner.” 

Still the sergeant pondered and paced. He was in 
doubt, and the consequences might be terrible. 

“ Have you ever known me to lie ? ” said Moondyne. 

The sergeant looked at him, but did not answer. 

At length he abruptly asked : “ Is it far away ? ” 
He was advancing toward a decision. 

“ We can reach the place in two days, if you give 
me a horse,” said Moondyne. 


24 


MOONDYNE. 


“ You might escape,” said the sergeant. 

“ I will not ; but if you doubt me, keep the chain on 
my wrist till I show you the gold.” 

“ And then ? ” said the sergeant. 

“ Then we shall be equals. I will lead you to the 
mine. You must return, and escape from the country 
as best you can. Do you agree ? ” 

The sergeant’s face was white, as he glanced at the 
sleeping trooper and then at the prisoner. 

“ I agree,” he said ; “ lie down, and pretend to 
sleep.” 

The sergeant had thought out his plan. He would 
insure his own safety, no matter how the affair turned. 
Helping a convict to escape was punished with death 
by the penal law ; but he would put another look 
on the matter. He cautiously waked the private 
trooper. 

“ Take those natives,” he said, “ all but the mounted 
tracker, and go on to Bunbury before me. The wounded 
men must be doctored at once.” 

Without a word, the disciplined trooper shook the 
drowsiness from him, saddled his horse, and mounted. 
In half an hour they were gone. 

Moondyne Joe and the sergeant listened till the last 
sound died away. The tracker was curled up again 
beside the fire. 

Sergeant Bowman then unlocked the chain, and the 
powerful prisoner rose to his feet. In a whisper the 
sergeant told him he must secure the native before he 
attempted to take the horse. 

Moondyne went softly to the side of the sleeping 
savage. There was a smile on his face as he knelt 
down and laid one strong hand on the man’s throat, 
and another on his pistol. 

In a few moments it was over. The bushman' never 
even writhed when he saw the stern face above him, 
and felt that his weapon was gone. Moondyne left 


THE GOLD MINE OF THE YASSE. 


25 


him tied hand and foot, and returned to the sergeant, 
who had the horses ready. 

When the convict stood beside the trooper he raised 
his hand suddenly, and held something toward him — 
the tracker’s pistol, loaded and capped ! He had played 
and won. His enemy stood defenceless before him — 
and the terror of death, as he saw the' position, was in 
the blanched face of the sergeant. 

“ Take this pistol,” said Moondyne, quietly. “ You 
may give it to me, if you will, when I have kept my 
word.” 

The sergeant took the weapon with a trembling 
hand, and his evil face had an awed look as he 
mounted. 

“ Call the dogs,” said Moondyne, “ we shall need 
them to-morrow.” In answer to a low whistle the 
wolf-like things bounded through the bush. The men 
struck off at a gallop, in the direction of the convicts’ 
camp, the sergeant a little behind, with his pistol ready 
in the holster. 


vrr. 

THE IRON-STONE MOUNTAINS. 

Moondyne took a straight line for the Koagulup 
Swamp, which they “ struck ” after a couple of hours’ 
ride. They dismounted near the scene of the capture, 
and Moondyne pulled from some bushes near the edge 
a short raft of logs bound together with withes of bark. 
The sergeant hesitated, and looked on suspiciously. 

“ You must trust me;” said Moondyne quietly ; “ un- 
less we break the track we shall have that sleuth-dog 
tracker after us when he gets loose.” 

The sergeant got on the raft, holding the bridles of 
the horses. Moondyne, with a pole, pushed from the 


26 


MOONDYNE. 


bank, and entered the gloomy arches of the wooded 
swamp. 

It was a weird scene. At noonday the flood was 
black as ink and the arches were filled with gloomy 
shadows. Overhead the foliage of trees and creepers 
was matted into a dense roof, now pierced by a few 
thin pencils of moonlight. 

Straight toward the centre Moondyne steered, for 
several hundred yards, the horses swimming behind. 
Then he turned at right angles, and pushed along from 
tree to tree in a line with the shore they had left. 
After a while the horses found bottom, and waded. 

“ No more trouble now,” said Moondyne. “ They ’re 
on the sand. We must keep along till morning, and 
then strike toward the hills.” 

They went ahead rapidly, thanks to Moondyne’s 
amazing strength ; and by daylight were a long dis- 
tance from the point at which they entered. A wide 
but shallow river with a bright sand bottom emptied 
into the swamp before them, and into this Moondyne 
poled the raft and tied it securely to a fallen tree, hid- 
den in sedge grass. 

They mounted their horses, and rode up the bed of 
the river, which they did not leave till near noontime. 
At last, when Moondyne deemed the track thoroughly 
broken, he turned toward the higher bank, and struck 
into the bush, the land beginning to rise toward the 
mountains when they had travelled a few miles. 

It was late in the afternoon when they halted for 
the day’s first meal. Moondyne climbed a mahogany 
tree, which he had selected from certain fresh marks on 
its bark, and from a hole in the trunk pulled out two 
silver-tailed ’possums, as large as rabbits. The ser- 
geant lighted a fire on the loose sand, and piled it high 
with dry wood. When the ’possums were ready for 
cooking, the sand beneath the fire was heated a foot 
deep, and making a hole in this, the game was buried, 


THE GOLD MINE OF THE VASSE. 


27 


and the fire continued above. After a time the embers 
were thrown off and the meat dug out. It looked burnt 
and black ; but when the crust was broken the flesh 
within was tender and juicy. This, with clear water 
from the iron-stone hills, made a rare meal for hungry 
men ; after which they continued their travel. 

Before nightfall they had entered the first circle of 
hills at the foot of the mountains. With a springing 
hope in his heart, Moondyne led the way into the tort- 
uous passes of the hills ; and in a valley as silent as 
the grave, and as lonely, they made their camp for the 
night. 

They were in the saddle before sunrise, and travel- 
ling in a strange and wild country, which no white 
man, except Moondyne, had ever before entered. The 
scene was amazing to the sergeant, who was used to 
the endless sameness of the gum forests on the plains 
of the convict settlement. Here, masses of dark metal- 
lic stone were heaped in savage confusion, and around 
these, like great pale serpents or cables, were twisted 
the white roots of tuad trees. So wild was the scene 
with rock and torrent, underbrush and forest, that the 
sergeant, old bushman as he was, began to feel that it 
would be dangerous for a man who had not studied the 
lay of the land, to travel here without a guide. How- 
ever, he had a deep game to play, for a great stake. 
He said nothing, but watched Moondyne closely, and 
observed everything around that might assist his mem- 
ory by-and-by. 

In the afternoon they rode through winding passes 
in the hills, and toward sunset came on the border of a 
lake in the basin of the mountains. 

“ How,” said Moondyne, dismounting by the lake- 
side, and turning loose his horse to crop the rich grass, 

“ now we may rest. We are inside the guard of the 
hills.” 

The sergeant’s manner had strangely altered during 


28 


MOONDYNE. 


the long ride. He was trembling on the verge of a 
great discovery ; but he was, to a certain extent, in the 
power of Moondyne. He could not help feeling that 
the man was acting truly to his word ; but his own 
purpose was so dark and deceitful, it was impossible 
for him to trust another. 

The punishment of falsehood is to suspect all truth. 
The mean of soul cannot conceive nobility. The vicious 
cannot believe in virtue. The artificial dignity im- 
parted by the sergeant’s office had disappeared, in spite 
of himself ; and in its place returned the caitiff aspect 
that had marked him when he was a convict and a 
settler. Standing on an equality with Moondyne, their 
places had changed, and the prisoner was the master. 

On the sandy shore of the beautiful lake they found 
turtles’ eggs, and these, with baked bandicoot, made 
supper and breakfast. 

On resuming their ride, next morning, Moondyne 
said : “ To-night we shall reach the gold mine.” 

The way was no longer broken ; they rode in the beds 
of grassy valleys, walled by precipitous mountains. 
Palms, bearing large scarlet nuts, brilliant flowers and 
birds, and trees and shrubs of unnamed species — all 
these, with delicious streams from the mountains, 
made a scene of wonderful beauty. The face of 
Moondyne was lighted up with appreciation ; and even 
the sergeant, coarse, cunning, and brutish, felt its puri- 
fying influence. 

It was a long day’s ride, broken only by a brief halt 
at noon, when they ate a hearty meal beside a deep 
river that wound its mysterious way among the hills. 
Hour after hour passed, and the jaded horses lagged 
on the way ; but still the valleys opened before the 
riders, and Moondyne advanced as confidently as if 
the road were familiar. 

Toward sunset he rode slowly, and with an air of 
expectancy. The sun had gone down behind the 


THE GOLD MINE OF THE VASSE. 29 

mountains, and the narrow valley was deep in shadow. 
Before them, standing in the centre of the valley, rose 
a tall white tuad tree, within fifty paces of the under- 
wood of the mountain on either side. 

When Moondyne, who led the way, had come with- 
in a horse’s length of the tree, a spear whirred from the 
dark wood on the right, across his path, and struck 
deep into the tuad tree. There was not a sound in the 
bush to indicate the presence of an enemy. The 
gloom of evening had silenced even the insect life, 
and the silence of the valley was profound. Yet 
there was startling evidence of life and hostility in 
the whirr of the spear, that had sunk into the tree 
before their eyes with such terrific force that it 
quivered like a living thing as it stood out from the 
tuad. 

Moondyne sprang from his horse, and, running to 
the tree, laid his hand on the shivered spear, and 
shouted a few words in the language of the aborigines. 
A cry from the bush answered, and the next moment 
a tall savage sprang from the cover and threw himself 
with joyful acclamations at the feet of Moondyne. 

Tall, lithe, and powerful was the young bushman. 
He arose and leant on his handful of slender spears, 
speaking rapidly to Moondyne. Once he glanced at 
the sergeant, and, smiling, pointed to the still quiver- 
ing spear in the tuad. Then he turned and led them 
up the valley, which soon narrowed to the dimensions 
of a ravine, like the bed of a torrent, running its per- 
plexed way between overhanging walls of iron-stone. 

The sun had gone down, and the gloom of the pas- 
sage became dark as midnight. The horses advanced 
slowly over the rugged way. A dozen determined 
men could hold such a pass against an army. Above 
their heads the travellers saw a narrow slit of sky, 
sprinkled with stars. The air was damp and chill be- 
tween the precipitous walls. The dismal pass was 


30 


MOONDYNE. 


many miles in length ; but at last the glare of a fire 
lit up the rocks ahead. 

The young bushman went forward alone, returning 
in a few minutes. Then Moondyne and the sergeant, 
proceeding with him to the end of the pass, found 
themselves in the opening of a small valley or basin, 
over which the sky, like a splendid domed roof, was 
clearly rounded by the tops of the mountains. 

A few paces from the entrance stood a group of 
natives, who had started from their rest at the approach 
of the party. 


VIII. 

THE KING OF THE VASSE. 

Beside the bright fire of mahogany wood, and slowly 
advancing to meet the strangers, was a venerable man 
— an aborigine, tall, white-haired, and of great dignity. 
It was Te-mana-roa (the long-lived), the King of the 
Vasse. 

Graver than the sedateness of civilization was the 
dignified bearing of this powerful and famous barba- 
rian. His erect stature was touched by his great age, 
which outran, it was said, all the generations then 
living. His fame as a ruler was known throughout 
the whole Western country, and among the aborigines 
even of the far Eastern slope, two thousand miles 
away, his existence was vaguely rumored, as in former 
times the European people heard reports of a mys- 
terious oriental potentate called Prester John. 

Behind the aged king, in the full light of the fire, 
stood two young girls, dark and skin-clad like their 
elder, but of surpassing symmetry of body and beauty 
of feature. They were Koro and Tapairu, the grand- 


THE GOLD MINE OF THE YASSE. 


31 


children of Te-mana-roa. Startled, timid, wondering, 
they stood together in the intense light, their soft fur 
bokas thrown back, showing to rare effect their 
rounded limbs and exquisitely curved bodies. 

The old chief welcomed Moondyne with few words, 
but with many signs of pleasure and deep respect ; but 
he looked with severe displeasure at his companion. 

A long and earnest conversation followed ; while 
the cunning eyes of the- sergeant, and the inquiring 
ones of the young bushman and his sisters followed 
every expression of the old chief and Moondyne. 

It was evident that Moondyne was telling the rea- 
son of the stranger’s presence — telling the story just 
as it had happened — that there was no other hope 
for life — and he had promised to show this man the 
gold mine. 

Te-mana-roa heard the story with a troubled brow, 
and when it had come to 'an end, he bowed his white 
head in deep thought. After some moments, he raised 
his face, and looked long and severely at the sergeant, 
who grew restless under the piercing scrutiny. 

Still keeping his eyes on the trooper’s face, he said 
in his own tongue, half in soliloquy, and half in 
query : — 

“ This man cannot be trusted ? ” 

Every eye in the group was now centred on the 
sergeant’s face. 

After a pause, Moondyne simply repeated the words 
of the chief : — 

“ He cannot be trusted.” 

“ Had he come blindfolded from the Koagulup,” con- 
tinued f the chief, “we might lead him through the 
passes in the night, and set him free. He has seen 
the hills and noted the sun and stars as he came : he 
must not leave this valley.” 

The old chief uttered the last sentence as one giving 
judgment. 


32 


MOONDYNE. 


“ Ngaru,” he said, still gazing intently on the troop- 
er’s face. The young bushman arose from the fire. 

“ He must not leave the pass, Ngaru.” 

Without a word the young and powerful bushman 
took his spears and wammara , and disappeared in the 
mouth of the gloomy pass. 

Te-mana-roa then arose slowly, and, lighting a resin- 
ous torch, motioned the sergeant to follow him toward 
a dark entrance in the iron-stone cliff that loomed 
above them. The sergeant obeyed, followed by Moon- 
dyne. The men stooped to enter the face of the cliff, 
but once inside, the roof rose high, and the way grew 
spacious. 

The walls were black as coal, and dripping with 
dampness. Not cut by the hands of man, but worn 
perhaps in ages past by a stream that worked its way, 
as patient as Fate, through the weaker parts of the 
rock. The roof soon rose so high that the torchlight 
was lost in the overhanging gloom. The passage 
grew wide and wider, until it seemed as if the whole 
interior of the mountain were hollow. There were no 
visible w r alls; but at intervals there came from the 
darkness above a ghostly white stalactite pillar of vast 
dimensions, down which in utter silence streamed 
water that glistened in the torchlight. 

A terror crept through the sergeant’s heart, that was 
only strong with evil intent. He glanced suspiciously 
at Moondyne. But he could not read the faces of 
the two men beside him. They symbolized some- 
thing unknown to such as he. On them at that 
moment lay the great but acceptable burden of man- 
hood — the overmastering but sweet allegiance that a 
true man owes to the truth. 

It does not need culture and fine association to 
develop in some men this highest quality. Those 
who live by externals, though steeped in their parrot 
learning, are not men, but shells of men. When one 


THE GOLD MINE OF THE VASSE. 


33 


turns within his own heart, and finds there the motive 
and the master, he approaches nobility. There is 
nothing of a man but the word, that is kept or 
broken — sacred as life, or unstable as water. By this 
we judge each other, in philosophy and practice ; and 
by this test shall be ruled the ultimate judgment. 

Moondyne had solemnly promised to lead to the 
mine a man he knew to be a villain. The native chief 
examined the bond of his friend, and acknowledged 
its force. 

The word of the Moondyne must be kept to-night. 
To-morrow the fate of the stranger would be decided. 

They proceeded far into the interior of the mountain, 
until they seemed to stand in the midst of a great 
plain, with open sky overhead, though in truth above 
them rose a mountain. The light was reflected from 
myriad points of spar or crystal, that shone above like 
stars in the blackness. The air of the place was 
tremulous with a deep, rushing sound, like the sweep 
of a river ; but the flood was invisible. 

At last the old chief, who led the way, stood beside a 
stone trough or basin, filled with long pieces of wood 
standing on end. To these he applied the torch, and a 
flame of resinous brightness swept instantly over the 
pile and licked at the darkness above in long, fiery 
tongues. 

The gloom seemed to struggle with the light, like 
opposing spirits, and a minute passed before the eye 
took in the surrounding objects. 

“ Now/’ said Moondyne to the sergeant, raising his 
hand and sweeping it around — “ Now, you are within 
the Gold Mine of the Vasse .” 

The stupendous dimensions of the vault or chamber 
in which they stood oppressed and terrified the ser- 
geant. Hundreds of feet above his head spread the 
shadow of the tremendous roof. Hundreds of feet 
from where he stood loomed the awful blackness of the 
3 


34 


MOONDYNE. 


cyclopean walls. From these he scarce could turn his 
eyes. Their immensity fascinated and stupefied him. 
Nor was it strange that such a scene should inspire 
awe. The vastest work of humanity dwindled into 
insignificance beside the immeasurable dimensions of 
this mysterious cavern. 

It was long before consciousness of his purpose 
returned to the sergeant ; but at length, withdrawing 
his eyes from the gloomy stretch of iron-stone that 
roofed the mine, his glance fell upon the wide floor, 
and there, on every side, from wall to wall, were 
heaps and masses of yellow metal — of dust and bars 
and solid rocks of gold. 


IX. 

A DAKK NIGHT AND DAY. 

The old chief led the way from the gold mine ; and 
the strangely assorted group of five persons sat by the 
fire while meat was cooked for the travellers. 

The youth who had escorted the white men from 
the outer valley was the grandson of the chief, and 
brother of the beautiful girls. Savages they were, 
elder and girls, in the eyes of the sergeant ; but there 
was a thoughtfulness in Te-mana-roa, bred by the 
trust of treasure and the supreme confidence of his 
race, that elevated him to an exalted plane of manhood ; 
and the young people had much of the same quiet and 
dignified bearing. 

The revelations of the day had been too powerful 
for the small brain of the cunning trooper. They came 
before his memory piecemeal. He longed for an 
opportunity to think them over, to get them into grasp, 
and to plan his course of action. 

The splendid secret must be his own, and he must 


THE GOLD MINE OF THE VASSE. 35 

overreach all who would to-morrow put conditions on 
his escape. While meditating this, the lovely form 
of one of the girls, observed by his evil eye as she bent 
over the fire, suggested a scheme, and before the meal 
was finished, the sergeant had worked far on the road 
of success. 

The chief and Moondyne talked long in the native 
language. The sisters, wrapped in soft furs, sat and 
listened, their large eyes fixed on the face of the Moon- 
dyne, their keen senses enjoying a novel pleasure as 
they heard their familiar words strangely sounded on 
his lips. 

To their simple minds the strongly marked white 
face must have appeared almost superhuman, known 
as it had long been to them by hearsay and the un- 
qualified affection of their people. 

Their girlhood was on the verge of something fuller ; 
they felt a new and delicious joy in listening to the 
deep musical tones of the Moondyne. They had long 
heard how strong and brave he was ; they saw that he 
was gentle when he spoke to them and the old chief. 
When he addressed them, it seemed that the same 
thrill of pleasure touched the hearts and lighted the 
faces of both sisters. 

“ One outside, and two here,” was the dread burden 
of the sergeant’s thought. “ Two days’ ride — but, can 
I be sure of the way ? ” 

Again and again his furtive eyes turned on the 
ardent faces of the girls. 

“ Ay, that will do,” he thought, “ these can be used 
to help me out.” 

The sisters retired to a tent of skins, and, lighting 
a fire at the opening to drive off the evil spirit, lay 
down to rest. Sleep came slowly to every member of 
the party. 

The old chief pondered on the presence of the 
stranger, who now he'ld the primal secret of the na- 
tive race. 


36 


MOONDYNE. 


The sergeant revolved his plans, going carefully 
over every detail of the next day’s work, foreseeing 
and providing for every difficulty with devilish in- 
genuity. 

The sisters lay in dreamy wakefulness, hearing 
again the deep musical voice, and seeing in the dark- 
ness the strange white face of the Moondyne. 

Before sleeping, Moondyne walked into the valley, 
and lifting his face to heaven, in simple and manful 
directness, thanked God for his deliverance; then, 
stretching himself beside the fire, he fell into a pro- 
found sleep. 

In the morning, Moondyne spoke to Koro and Tap- 
airu in their own tongue, which was not guttural on 
their lips. They told him, with much earnest gesture 
and flashing of eyes, about the emu’s nest in the val- 
ley beyond the lake, and other such things as made 
up their daily life. Their steps were light about the 
camp that morning. 

At an early hour the old man entered the gold 
mine, and did not return. To look after the horses, 
Moondyne, with the girls, crossed the valley, and then 
went up the mountain toward the emu’s nest. 

The sergeant, with bloodshot eyes from a sleepless 
night, had hung around the camp all the morning, feel- 
ing that, though his presence seemed unheeded, he was 
in the deepest thought of all. 

Whatever his purpose, it was settled now. There 
was dark meaning in the look that followed Moon- 
dyne and the girls till they disappeared on the wooded 
mountain. When at last they were out of sight and 
•hearing, he arose suddenly, and moved toward the 
mouth of the mine. At that moment, the young 
bushman from the outpost emerged from the pass, 
and walked rapidly to the fire, looking around inquir- 
ingly for Moondyne and the girls. 

As the sergeant explained in dumb show that they 


THE GOLD MINE OF THE VASSE. 37 

had gone up the mountain yonder, there rose a gleam 
of hideous satisfaction in his eyes. The danger he 
had dreaded most had come to his hand to be de- 
stroyed. All through the night he had heard the whirr 
of a spear from an unseen hand, and he shuddered at 
the danger of riding through the pass to escape. But 
there was no other course open. Were he to cross the 
mountains he knew that without a guide he never 
could reach the penal colony. 

Had the sage Te-mana-roa been present, he would at 
once have sent the bushman back to his duty. But 
the youth had drawn his spear from the tuad tree at 
the outpost, and he proceeded to harden again its 
injured point in the embers of the fire. 

The sergeant, who had carelessly sauntered around 
the fire till he stood behind the bushman, now took a 
stride toward him, then suddenly stopped. 

Had the native looked around at the moment, he 
would have sent his spear through the stranger’s 
heart as swiftly as he drove it into the tuad yester- 
day. There was murder in the sergeant’s face as he 
took the silent stride, and paused, his hand on his 
pistol. 

“Hot with this,” he muttered, “no noise with him. 
But this will do.” 

He stooped for a heavy club, and with a few 
quick and stealthy paces stood -over the bushman. 
Another instant, and the club descended with crush- 
ing violence. Without a sound but the deadly blow, 
the quivering body fell backward on the assassin’s 
feet. 

Bapidly he moved in his terrible work. He crept 
to the entrance of the mine, and far within saw the 
old man moving before the flame. Pistol in hand he 
entered the cavern, from which, before many minutes 
had passed, he came forth white-faced. As he stepped 
from the cave, he turned a backward glance of fearful 


38 


MOONDYNE. 


import. He saw that he had left the light burning 
behind him. 

Warily scanning the mountain side, he dragged the 
body of the youth inside the mouth of the cavern, 
then, seating himself by the fire, he examined his pis- 
tols, and awaited the return of Moondyne and the 
girls. 

In the sweet peace of the valley, the livid and 
anxious wretch seemed the impersonation of crime. 
He had meditated the whole night on his purpose. 
All he feared was partial failure. But he had pro- 
vided for every chance ; he had more than half suc- 
ceeded already. Another hour, and he would be sole 
master of the treasure — and, with the sisters in his 
power, there was no fear of failure. 

It was a terrible hour to wait ; but at last he saw 
them coming, the lithe figures of the girls winding 
among the trees as they crossed the valley. 

But they were alone : Moondyne was not with them ! 

They came with bent faces, as if thinking of pleas- 
ant things ; but they started with affright, and drew 
close together, when they saw the stranger, alone, rise 
from the fire and come ' toward them. 

With signs, he asked for Moondyne, and they an- 
swered that he had gone across the mountain, and 
would return when the sun had gone down. 

This was an ominous disappointment ; but the ser- 
geant knew that his life would not be worth one day’s 
purchase with such an enemy behind him. He must 
wait. 

He returned to the fire, the girls keeping distrust- 
fully distant. He feared they might enter the mine, 
and too soon discover the dreadful secret ; so, getting 
between them and the rock, he lay down at the 
entrance. 

Like startled deer, the girls looked around, instinct- 
ively feeling that danger was near. The evil eyes of 


THE GOLD MINE OF THE VASSE. 


39 


the sergeant never left them. He had not foreseen 
this chance, and for the moment knew not how to 
proceed. 

The sisters stood near the fire, alarmed, alert, the 
left hand of one in the right of the other. At length 
their quick eyes fell upon blood on the sand, and 
followed the track till they met again the terrible 
face at the mouth of the mine. 

And, as they looked, a sight beyond the prostrate 
man, coming from the dark entrance, froze their hearts 
with terror. 

The face of the aged chief, his white hair discolored 
with blood, appeared above the dreadful watcher, and 
looked out toward the girls. The old man, who had 
dragged his wounded body from the cave, rose to his 
feet when he saw the sisters, tottered forward with a 
cry of warning, and fell across the murderer. 

Paralyzed with horror, the sergeant could not move 
for some moments. But soon feeling that he was not 
attacked, he pushed aside the senseless body, and 
sprang to his feet with a terrible malediction. In that 
moment of his blind terror, the girls had disappeared. 

He ran hither and thither searching for them ; but 
found no trace of their hiding-place or path of escape. 
At length he gave up the search, a shivering dread 
growing upon him every instant, and hastened to 
catch the horses. He began to realize that his well- 
laid plan was a failure. 

There was now only one course open. He must 
take his chance alone, and ride for his life, neither 
resting nor sleeping. The girls would run straight to 
Moondyne ; and he must act speedily to get beyond 
his reach. 

In a few minutes the horses were ready, standing at 
the entrance of the mine. The sergeant entered, and, 
passing the flaming basin, loaded himself with bars 
and plates of gold. Again and again he returned, till 


40 


MOONDYNE. 


the horses were laden with treasure. Then, mounting, 
he called the dogs ; but they had gone with Moon- 
dyne. 

Once more the chill of fear struck like an icicle 
through his heart at his utter loneliness. Leading the 
spare horse by the bridle, he rode headlong into the 
ravine and disappeared. 


X. 

ON THE TRAIL. 

It was evening, and the twilight was gray in the lit- 
tle valley, when Moondyne reached the camp. He was 
surprised to find the place deserted. He had expected 
a welcome — had been thinking, perhaps, of the glad 
faces that would greet him as he approached the fire. 
But the fire was black, the embers were cold. He 
looked and saw that there was no light in the gold 
mine. 

A dreadful presentiment grew upon him. A glance 
for the saddles, and another across the valley, and he 
knew that the horses were gone. Following the 
strange action of the dogs, he strode toward the cave, 
and there, at the entrance, read the terrible story. 

The sight struck this strange convict like a physical 
blow. His limbs failed him, and his body sank till he 
knelt on the sand at the mouth of the mine. He felt 
no wrath, but only crushing self-accusation. 

“ God forgive me ! ” was the intense cry of heart and 
brain : “ God forgive me for this crime ! ” 

The consequence of his fatal selfishness crushed 
him ; and the outstretched arms of the old chief, whose 
unconsciousness, for he was not dead, was fearfully 
like death, seemed to call down curses on the destroyer 
of his people. 


THE GOLD MINE OF THE YASSE. 


41 


The years of his life went miserably down before 
Moondyne till he grovelled in the desolation of his 
dismal abasement. A ban had followed him, and 
blighted all he had touched. 

Years were pressed into minutes as he crouched be- 
side the maimed bodies of his friends. The living 
man lay as motionless as the dead. The strong mind 
brought up the whole scene for judgment. His inward 
eye saw the fleeing murderer ; but he felt more of pity 
for the wretch than of vengeance. The entire sensi- 
bility of Moondyne was concentrated in the line of 
his own conscience. Himself accused himself, — and 
should the criminal condemn another ? 

When at last he raised his face, with a new thought 
of duty, the trace of the unutterable hour was graven 
upon him in deep lines. 

Where were the sisters ? Had they been sacrificed 
too ? By the moonlight he searched the valley ; he 
entered the cave, and called through all its passages. 
It was past midnight when he gave up the search and 
stood alone in the desolate place. 

In the loose sand of the valley he scooped a grave, 
to which he carried the body of the young bushman, 
and buried it. When this was done he proceeded to 
perform a like office for Te-mana-roa, but looking 
toward the cave he was startled at the sight of the 
sisters, one of whom, Koro, stood as if watching him, 
while the other, aided by an extremely old woman, 
was tending on the almost dying chief, whose con- 
sciousness was slowly returning. 

Benumbed and silent, Moondyne approached the 
cave. The girl who had watched him shrank back to 
the others. Tepairu, the younger sister, rose and faced 
the white man with a threatening aspect. She pointed 
her finger toward the pass. 

“ Go ! ” she said, sternly, in her own tongue. 

Moondyne paused and looked at her. 


42 


MOONDYNE. 


“ Begone ! ” she cried, still pointing ; and once again 
came the words, " begone, accursed ! ” 

Remorse had strangled grief in Moondyne’s breast, 
or the agony of the girl, uttered in this terrible re- 
proach, would have almost killed him. Accursed she 
said, and he knew that the word was true. 

He turned from the place, not toward the pass, but 
toward the mountains, and walked from the val- 
ley with an aimless purpose, and a heart filled with 
ashes. 

For hours he held steadily on, heedless of direction. 
He marked no places — had no thoughts — only the 
one gnawing and consuming presence of the ruin he 
had wrought. 

The dogs followed him, tired and spiritless. The 
moon sank, and the sun rose, and still the lonely man 
held his straight and aimless road, — across mountains 
and through ravines, until at last his consciousness 
was recalled as he recognized the valley in which he 
stood as one he had travelled two days before, on the 
way to the gold mine. 

Stretching his exhausted body on a sheltered bank 
beside a stream, he fell into a deep sleep that lasted 
many hours. 

He awoke with a start, as if a voice had called him. 
In an instant his brow was set and his mind deter- 
mined. He glanced at the sun to settle his direction, 
and then walked slowly across the valley, intently 
observing the ground. Before he had taken a hundred 
paces he stopped suddenly, turned at right angles down 
the valley, and strode on with a purpose, that though 
rapidly, almost instantaneously formed, had evidently 
taken full possession of his will. 

Sometimes persons of keen sensibility lie down to 
sleep with a trouble on the mind, and an unsettled 
purpose, and wake in the night to find the brain clear 
and the problem solved. From this process of uncon- 


THE GOLD MINE OF THE YASSE. 


43 


scious cerebration Moondyne awoke with a complete 
and settled resolution. 

There could be no doubt of the determination in his 
mind. He had struck the trail of the murderer. 

There was no more indirection or hesitation in his 
manner. He settled down to the pursuit with a grim 
and terrible earnestness. His purpose was clear before 
him — to stop the devil he had let loose — to prevent 
the escape of the assassin — to save the people who 
had trusted and saved him. 

He would not turn from this intent though the track 
led him to the prison gate of Fremantle ; and even 
there, in the face of the guards, he would slay the 
wretch before he had betrayed the secret. 

Death is on the trail of every man ; but we have 
grown used to him, and heed him not. Crime and Sin 
are following us — will surely find us out, and some 
day will open the cowl and show us the death’s-head. 
But more terrible than these Fates, because more phys- 
ically real, is the knowledge ever present that a relent- 
less human enemy is on our track. 

Through the silent passes of the hills, his heart a 
storm of fears and hopes, the sergeant fled toward 
security. Every mile added to the light ahead. He 
rode wildly and without rest — rode all day and into 
the night, and would still have hurried on, but the 
horses failed and must have rest. 

He fed and watered them, watching with feverish 
eyes the renewal of their strength ; and as he watched 
them eat, the wretched man fell into a sleep, from 
which he started in terror, fearful that the pursuer was 
upon him. 

Through the day and night, depending on his great 
strength, Moondyne followed. While the fugitive 
rested, he strode on, and he knew by instinct and 
observation that he was gaining in the race. 

Every hour the tracks were fresher. On the morn- 


44 


MOONDYNK 


ing of the second day, he had found the sand still moist 
where the horses had drank from a stream. On the 
evening of that day he passed the burning embers of a 
lire. The murderer was gaining confidence, and taking 
longer rest. 

The third day came with a revelation to Moondyne. 
The sergeant had lost the way — had turned from the 
valley that led toward the Settlement, and had sealed 
his doom by choosing one that reached toward the im- 
measurable deserts of the interior. 

The pursuer was not stayed by the discovery. To 
the prison or the wilderness, should the track lead, he 
would follow. 

At first the new direction was pleasant. Dim woods 
on either side of a stream, the banks fringed with ver- 
dure and pranked with bright flowers. But like the 
pleasant ways of life, the tempting valley led to the 
desolate plains ; before night had closed, pursuer and 
pursued were far from the hills and streams, in the 
midst of a treeless sea of sand. 

Nothing but fear of death could drive the sergeant 
forward. He was bushman enough to know the danger 
of being lost on the plains. But he dare not return to 
meet him whom he knew was hunting him down. 

There was but one chance before him, and this was 
to tire out the pursuer — if, as his heart suggested, 
there was only one in pursuit — to lead him farther 
and farther into the desert, till he fell on the barren 
track and died. 

It was sore travelling for horse and man under the 
blazing sun, with no food nor water save what he 
pressed from the pith of the palms, and even these 
were growing scarce. The only life on the plains was 
the hard and dusty scrub. Every hour brought a more 
hopeless and grislier desolation. 

How was it with Moondyne ? The strong will still 
upheld him. He knew he had gained till they took to 


THE GOLD MINE OF THE YASSE. 


45 


the plains ; but he also knew that here the mounted 
man had the advantage. Every day the track was less 
distinct, and he suffered more and more 'from thirst. 
The palms he passed had been opened by the sergeant ; 
and he had to leave the trail to find one untouched. 

The sun flamed in the bare sky, and the sand was so 
hot that the air hung above it in a tremulous haze. In 
the woods the dogs had brought him food ; but no liv- 
ing thing was to be hunted on the plains. He had 
lived two days on the pith of the palms. 

On the third day Moondyne with difficulty found 
the sand trail, which had been blown over by the night 
breeze. He had slept on the shelterless desert, and 
had dreamt of sweet wells of water as the light dew 
fell on his parched body. 

This day he was quite alone. The dogs, suffering 
from thirst, had deserted him in the night. 

He began the day with a firm heart but an unsteady 
step. There was not a palm in sight. It was hot noon 
before he found a small scrub to moisten his throat 
and lips. 

But to-day, he thought, he must come face to face 
with the villain, and would kill him like a wild beast 
on the desert ; and the thought upheld him. 

His head was bare and his body nearly naked. 
Another man would have fallen senseless under the 
cruel sun ; but Moondyne did not even rest, — as the 
day passed he did not seem to need rest. 

It was strange how pleasant, how like a dream, part 
of that day appeared. Sometimes he seemed to be 
awake, and to know that he was moving over the sand, 
and with a dread purpose ; but at these times he knew 
that the trail had disappeared — that he was blindly 
going forward, lost on the wilderness. Toward even- 
ing the cool breeze creeping over the sand dispelled the 
dreams and made him mercilessly conscious. 

The large red sun was standing on the horizon of 


46 


MOONDYNE. 


sand, and an awful shadow seemed waiting to fall upon 
the desert. 

When the sun had gone down, and the wanderer 
looked at the stars, there came to him a new Thought, 
like a friend, with a grave but not unkind face — a 
vast and solemn Thought, that held him for a long 
time with upraised face and hands, as if it had been 
whispered from the deep quiet sky. Slowly he walked 
with his new communion, and when he saw before 
him in the moonlight two palms, he did not rush to 
cut them open, but stood beside them smiling. Open- 
ing one, at length, he took the morsel of pith, and ate, 
and slept. 

How sweet it was to wake up and see the wide sky 
studded with golden stars — to feel that there were no 
bonds any more, nor hopes, nor heart-burnings. 

The Divine Thought that had come to him the day 
before was with him still — grave and kindly, and 
now, they two were so utterly alone, it seemed almost 
to smile. He raised his body and knelt upon the sand, 
looking upward, and all things seemed closing quietly 
in upon him, as if coming to a great rest, and he would 
have lain down on the sand at peace — but a cry, a 
human-like cry, startled him into wakefulness, — surely 
it was a cry ! 

It was clear and near and full of suffering. Surely, 
he had heard — he had not dreamt of such a cry. 
Again — God ! how near and how keen it was — from 
the darkness, — a cry of mortal agony ! 

With a tottering step Moondyne ran toward the 
woful sound. He saw by the moonlight a dark object 
on the sand. The long weak cry hurried him on, till 
he stood beside the poor throat whence it came, and 
was smote with pity at the dismal sight. 

On the sand lay two horses, chained at the neck, — 
one dead, the other dying in an agony of thirst and 
imprisonment. Beside the dead horse, almost buried 


THE GOLD MINE OF THE YASSE. 


47 


in the sand, as he had fallen from the saddle, lay a 
man, seemingly dead, but whose glazing eyes turned 
with hideous suffering as Moondyne approached. The 
wretched being was powerless to free himself from the 
fallen horse ; and upon his body, and all around him, 
were scattered heavy bars and plates of gold. 

Moondyne loosed the chain from the suffering horse, 
that struggled to its feet, ran forward a few yards, and 
fell dead on the sand. 

The men’s eyes met, and the blistered lips of the 
sergeant — for it was he — moved in piteous appeal. 
Moondyne paused one stern moment, then turned and 
ran from the place — ran toward the palm near which 
he had slept. With hasty hand he tore it open and 
cut out the pith, and sped back to the sufferer. He 
knelt down, and squeezed the precious moisture into 
the mouth of the dying man — the man whom he had 
followed into the desert to kill like a wild beast. 

Till the last drop was gone he pressed the young 
wood. Then the guilty wretch raised his eyes and 
looked at Moondyne — the glazed eyes grew bright, 
and brighter, till a tear rose within them, and rolled 
down the stained and sin-lined face. The baked lips 
moved, and the weak hands were itiised imploringly. 
The sergeant fell back dead. 

Moondyne knew that his last breath was contrition, 
and his last dumb cry, “ Pardon.” 

Then, too, th^ strength faded from the limbs and the 
light from the eyes of Moondyne — and as he sank 
to the earth, the great Thought that had come to 
him filled his heart with peace — and he lay uncon- 
scious beside the dead. 

The sun rose on the desert, but the sleeper did not 
move. Before the day was an hour old, other forms 
rapidly crossed the plain — not wanderers, but fierce, 
skin-clad men, in search of vengeance. 

They flung themselves from their horses when they 


48 


MOONDYNE. 


reached the scene ; and one, throwing himself upon the 
body of the sergeant, sprang back with a guttural cry 
of wrath and disappointment, which was echoed by 
the savage party. 

Next moment, one of the natives, stooping to lay 
his hand on the heart of the Moondyne, uttered an 
excited call. The spearmen crowded around, and one 
poured water from a skin on the face and body of the 
senseless man. 

They raised him to the arms of a strong rider, 
while another took the reins, and the wild party struck 
off at a full gallop toward the mountains. 

When Moondyne returned to consciousness, many 
days after his rescue, he was free from pursuit, he had 
cut for ever the bond of the Penal Colony ; above him 
bent the deep eyes and kind faces of the old chief and 
the sisters, Koro and Tepairu, and around him were 
the hills that shut in the Valley of the Vasse Gold 
Mine. 

He closed his eyes again and seemed to sleep for a 
little while. Then he looked up and met the face of 
Te-mana-roa kindly watching him. “ I am free ! ” he 
only said. Then turning to the sisters : “I am not 
accursed ; ” and Koro and Tepairu answered with kind 
smiles. 


BOOK SECOND. 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 


I. 

THE MATE OF THE CANTON. 

It is midwinter, in a little Lancashire village on the 
coast, not far from Liverpool. One quiet main street, 
crossed by three or four short side streets, that lead in 
the summer days into the sweet meadows and orchards. 
One of these side streets has only three houses on one 
side, separated by goodly gardens. The house in the 
centre is the smallest, but it is extremely neat, and the 
garden fairly glows with color. 

This is the home of Mrs. Walmsley, a widow ; and 
the garden is looked after by herself and her daughter 
Alice, about sixteen years old. The house on the right 
of Mrs. Walmsley ’s belongs to Mr. Draper, the richest 
man in the village, a retired shopkeeper. The house 
on the left belongs to Captain Sheridan, a bluff old 
Irishman, retired from the Navy, and now Inspector 
of Coast Guards, whose family consists of his son and 
daughter — Will Sheridan, the son, being just twenty 
years old. 

At the gate of Draper’s garden, opening on the 
street, stands a handsome young man in the uniform 
of the merchant marine. He is Sam Draper, first 
officer of the Canton , arrived a few weeks before from 
China. 


4 


50 


MOONDYNE. 


“ Good-morning, Alice,” he says in a cheerful but 
not a pleasant voice, as Alice Walmsley passes down 
the road. 

Alice stopped and chatted lightly for a minute with 
her old schoolmate. Draper evidently paid her a com- 
pliment, for her cheeks were flushed as she entered 
her mother’s gate, standing near which was young 
Sheridan, whom she slightly saluted and hurriedly 
passed, much to his surprise, for their relations were, 
at least, of the oldest and closest friendship. 

“ Alice,” said Will, in a wondering tone, as the girl 
passed with her flushed face. 

“ Well — did you speak ? ” And she paused and 
turned her head. 

Will Sheridan loved Alice, and she knew it, though 
no word had been spoken. He had loved her for 
years in a boy’s way, cherishing her memory on his 
long voyages, for Will, too, was a sailor, as were 
almost all the young men of the village ; but he was 
soon to leave, home for a two years’ service on Sam 
Draper’s vessel, and of late his heart had been urging 
him to speak to Alice. 

He was a quiet, thoughtful, manly young fellow, 
with nothing particular about him, except this strong- 
secret love for the prettiest girl in the village. 

“Yes, I spoke,” he answered hesitatingly, as if 
wounded ; “ but perhaps you haven’t time to listen.” 

“ What is it, Will ? ” she said in a kindlier tone, and 
smiling, though before she spoke she saw with a side 
glance that Sam Draper had gone away from the gate. 

“ 0, it isn’t anything particular,” said Will ; “ only 
there ’s rare skating on the mill-pond, and I was going 
there this afternoon.” 

“ And — ? ” queried Alice, archly. 

“Yes — I wish you would,” said Will, earnestly. 

“ Well, I think I will,” she replied, laughingly, 
“ though you haven’t told me yet what I am to do.” 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 


51 


“Why, go skating with me,” said Will, highly 
pleased ; “ Sam Draper and his sisters are going, and 
there will he a crowd from the village. Shall I come 
for you at three ? ” 

“ Yes,” she replied, “ I ’ll be ready ; ” and as she 
turned toward her mother’s house, the flush was in 
her face again. 

Will Sheridan walked lightly on, thinking happy 
thoughts. Passing Draper’s gate, Sam Draper stepped 
from the shrubbery, whence he had observed the inter- 
view. He was a tall, handsome fellow, with fair hair 
and blue eyes ; not the soft blue which usually denotes 
good nature, hut a pale slaty blue that has a hard and 
shallow look. He had a free-and-easy way with him 
that made people who met him for the first time think 
he was cheerful and amiable. But if you observed 
him closely, you would see, in the midst of a bois- 
terous laugh, that the cold blue eyes were keenly 
watching you, without a particle of mirth. 

There was something never to be forgotten by those 
who discovered this double expression in Draper’s 
face. He had a habit of waving his arms in a boister- 
ous way, and bending his body, as if to emphasize the 
heartiness of his laugh or the warmth of his greeting. 
But while these visible expressions of jollity were in 
full play, if you caught the cold and calculating look 
from the blue eyes that were weighing you up while 
off your guard, you would shudder as if you had looked 
suddenly into the eyes of a snake. 

Draper knew, too, that his face could he read by 
keen eyes ; and he tried to mask even the habit of 
concealment, until at last his duplicity had become 
extremely artful and hard to be discovered. But he 
always knew the people who had caught his eye and 
read his soul. He never tried his boisterous manner 
on them again, hut treated them gravely and quietly. 
But these were the people he hated. 


52 


MOONDYNE. 


Seven years before, when he and Will Sheridan 
were school-boys, Sheridan not only saw through the 
falsehood of Draper’s manner, but exposed it before the 
whole school. Nearly every boy in the school had 
had some reason to dislike Draper, but his loud good- 
natured way had kept them from speaking. But when 
Will Sheridan publicly pointed out the warm laugh 
and the cold eye, the friendly word arid the cruel act, 
every one saw it at a glance, and a public opinion 
against Draper was instantly made among his school- 
fellows, which no after effort of his could quite re- 
move. 

From that day he nourished in his soul a secret 
desire to do Sheridan some injury that would cut him 
to the quick. 

Not that Draper had no friends — indeed he was 
always making new friends — and his new friends were 
always loud in his praise ; but when they ceased to be 
new, somehow, they ceased to admire Sam Draper, 
and either said they were mistaken in their first im- 
pression, or said nothing. 

Both young men were sailors. Some years ago, the 
English merchant service was almost as well ordered 
and as precise in discipline and promotion as the Royal 
Navy, and young men of good position entered it as a 
profession. On his last voyage, Draper had become 
first mate ; and Will Sheridan had lately engaged to 
take his old place on the Canton as second mate. * 

As Draper stepped from the shrubbery and hailed 
Will with a cheery word, his hand was outstretched 
in a most cordial way, and his lips smiled ; but his 
eye was keen and smileless and as cold as ice. He 
had known for years of Will’s affection for Alice 
Walmsley; audit was commonly said in the village 
that Alice returned his love. 

“ Why don’t you ask Alice to go skating this after- 
noon ? ” said Draper. 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 


53 


“I have just asked her” said Will, “and she is 
going.” 

“ Bravo ! ” said Draper, in a hearty tone, so far as the 
sound went ; “ I thought she would like to he asked, 
when I told her half an hour ago that we were going.” 

Will Sheridan had some light word on his lip, but 
he did not speak it ; and his smile faded, though 
without apparent cause, while he looked at Draper’s 
pleasant face. » 

“• She didn’t say he had told her,” he thought, and 
somehow the thought troubled him. But he put it * 
away and forgot all about it before the afternoon. 

The mill-pond was covered with skaters when Will 
and Alice arrived. They had often skated together 
before, and because Alice was timid on the ice, she 
used to hold Will’s hand or take his arm ; and now 
and then, and as often as he could, Will’s arm was 
around her, as he struck out strongly and rapidly. 

Unconsciously they had assumed settled relations 
toward each other, — she resting on him with confi- 
dence, and he quite assured of her trust. 

To-day there was a disturbing element somewhere. 
Before they had been ten minutes on the ice, Will 
noticed that Alice was, for the first time in her life, 
listening inattentively to his words. And more than 
once he saw her looking over his shoulder, as if seeking 
some one in the crowd of skaters. After a while she 
evidently found whom she had sought, and her face 
brightened. Will, at the moment, asked her some 
question, and she did not hear him at first, but made 
him repeat the word. 

With a strange sinking of the heart, he followed the 
direction of the girl’s eyes, and was just in time to see 
Sajn Draper kiss his hand to her — and Alice smiled. 

Will Sheridan was a sensitive and proud young 
fellow, and his quick feelings of honor were wounded 
by what he perhaps too hastily deemed the deceit of 


54 


MOONDYNE. 


Alice Walmsley. A change had certainly come in her 
relation to him, but what right had he to charge her 
with deceit ? He had no claim on her — had never 
spoken a word of love to her in his life. 

The evening had closed when he left her at her 
mother’s gate. They said “Good-night” in a new 
fashion — the words were as cold as the wind, and 
the touch of the hands was brief and formal. 

After that Will did not ask Alice to walk or skate 
with him. He called no more at her mother’s house 
as he used to do. He went to none of the usual 
places of meeting with her. If he had gone, he should 
have been all the more lonely ; for he could not pre- 
tend to be pleasantly engaged with others while his 
heart was full of pain and unrest. But he could not 
help watching for her from his room window; and 
surely it were better for his happiness had he over- 
come this, too. 

He saw that where he used to be, there every day 
was his rival. He heard Draper’s loud and happy 
voice and laughter; and he noticed that Alice was 
happier and far more boisterous than ever he had 
known her — and that her happiness and gayety be- 
came even louder when she knew he was observing. 

But at last came the time of the Canton's sailing. 
On the evening before leaving, Will Sheridan went to 
Mrs. Walmsley’s to say good-by, and as Alice was not 
there, he remained talking with her mother, with 
whom he had always been a favorite. After a while 
he heard the gate swing, and saw Alice approaching 
the house, and Draper looking after her from the gate. 

When Alice entered, he was standing and bidding 
farewell to her mother, who was weeping quietly. 

Alice understood all, and the flush faded from her 
cheek. 

“Good-by, Alice,” he said, holding out his hand. 
“You know I am going away in the morning.” He 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 


55 


had walked toward the door as lie spoke, keeping her 
hand, and now they stood in the porch. 

He saw the tears in her eyes, and his courage gave way, 
for he had only a boy’s heart to bear a man’s grief ; 
and he covered his face with his hands and sobbed. 

In a few moments he was calm, and he bent over 
the weeping girl. “ Alice ! ” he whispered, tenderly, 
and she raised her tear-stained face to his breast. 
Poor Will, yearning to take her in his arms, remem- 
bering what he had seen, only pressed her hands in 
his, and stooping, kissed her on the forehead again 
and again. Then he walked, tear-blinded, down the 
straight path to the gate. 

A moment after, he felt a man’s hand on his collar, 
and, turning, met the hard eyes of Draper. Sheridan’s 
face was still quivering with the powerful emotion. 

“ What do you mean, Draper ? ” he demanded 
angrily, dashing the hand aside. 

“I mean to let you know,” said Draper, con- 
temptuously, weighing the words, “ that I saw all your 
snivelling scene, and that I have seen all your imper- 
tinent attentions to that girl.” 

Will Sheridan controlled himself by a violent effort, 
because the name of Alice Walmsley was in ques- 
tion. 

“ That girl, as you impertinently call her,” he said, 
calmly, “ is one of my oldest friends. My attentions 
have never been impertinent to her ” 

“ You lie, you cur ! ” brutally answered Draper. 

Though few words had been spoken, here was the 
culmination of an enmity that was old and rankling. 
On both sides there had been repression of feeling ; 
but now the match had touched the powder, and the 
wrath flamed. 

The word had barely passed the insulter’s lips, when 
he reeled and tumbled headlong from Sheridan’s ter- 
rible blow. As soon as the blow was delivered, Will 


56 


MOONDYNE. 


turned, and walked toward his own home, never even 
looking behind. 

It was half a minute before Draper picked himself 
from the frozen earth, still dazed with the shock. He 
showed no desire to follow, or continue the quarrel. 
With teeth set like a vise, and a livid face, he looked 
after the strong figure of Will, till he turned into his 
father’s house. 

Next day, the young men left the village, and en- 
tered on their duty as officers of the Canton , which 
lay in a Liverpool dock. No one knew of their 
quarrel, as neither had spoken of it, and there had 
been no witnesses. 

The preparations for sea kept them apart for several 
days. The vessel sailed from Liverpool, and soon 
cleared the Channel. Two weeks later, when the ship 
passed on a beautiful night within sight of the West- 
ern Islands, the young men came face to face on the 
poop. Will Sheridan had come on deck to enjoy the 
delightful scene, not thinking that the first mate was 
officer of the watch. 

“ Draper,” said Will, in a friendly tone, holding out 
his hand when they met, “ I did not know you were 
engaged to Miss Walmsley. We should both be sorry 
for what happened that night.” 

The eyes of Draper glittered like steel as he an- 
swered in a sneering tone, — 

“ And who told you, sir, that I was engaged ? ” 

“ I judge so from your conduct,” said Will. 

“ You are not a good judge, then,” answered Draper. 

“ Then there ’s all the less reason for us to quarrel, 
man. Take back your insulting words, and let me 
apologize for my violence.” 

“ My insulting words — let me see, what were they ? 
Ah, yes,” — he spoke slowly, as if he meant to wound 
with the repetition — “ I think I sai£ that I had been 
a witness to your snivelling scene of farewell — and 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 


57 


that I was acquainted with your unsought and imper- 
tinent attentions to that girl. By the way, I may tell 
you that she herself made me acquainted with the 
offensive persistence of her obtuse admirer.” 

“She told you !” said Will, staggered by the word. 
cf She said my love was offensive to her ? ” 

“ Ha ! no — not love exactly,” said the other, with 
the same biting sneer ; “ I believe you never gave her 
a chance to fling that in your teeth.” 

“ Take care, Draper ! ” said Sheridan. 

“Well, let us go on with the insulting words, as you 
choose to call them. I also said you were a liar, if I 
remember well ; and a cur — did I not ? ” 

“ Why do you repeat the foul words, man ? ” asked 
Sheridan, indignantly. 

“ Why ? Because I used them after careful choosing 
— because they are true ! Stay ! — ” he added, raising 
his voice, and backing to the rail, as he saw Sheridan 
approaching. “ I am the first officer of this ship, and 
if you dare to raise your hand against me, I will shoot 
you like a dog. We ’ll have no mutiny here.” 

“ Mutiny ! ” cried Sheridan, more astounded and 
puzzled than angry. “What in heaven’s name are 
you talking about ? I want to he calm, Draper, for 
old time’s sake. You call me vile names, and threaten 
my life, and yet I have given you no earthly cause. 
What do you mean ? ” 

“ I mean, that he who pretends to he my friend, 
while he ruins my character, is a liar ; and that he who 
tells a slander in secret is a coward.” 

“ Slander your character ! ” said Sheridan, “ I never 
said an ill word of you — though I have unwillingly 
become acquainted with some things that I wish I had 
never known.” 

The latter part of the sentence was slowly added. 
Draper winced as if cut with a whip. 

“You have made a charge,” continued Sheridan, 


58 


MOONDYNE. 


sternly, “ and yon must explain it. How have I slan- 
dered you ? ” 

Draper hesitated. He hated the man before him, 
like a fiend; but he hated still more the subject he 
had now to touch. 

“ You knew about that girl in Calcutta,” he said, 
now fairly livid with passion; “no one in England 
knew it but you.” 

“ Yes,” said Sheridan, slowly, “ I learned something 
about it, against my will.” 

“ Against your will ! ” sneered the other, “ was it 
against your will you told the story to — her ? ” 

Draper never repeated Alice’s name, as if it were 
unpleasant to his tongue. 

“ I never mentioned your shameful affairs,” an- 
swered Sheridan, with scorn and indignation ; “ but 
you are justly punished to have thought so.” 

“ You did tell her ! ” cried Draper, terribly excited ; 
“ you told her about my marriage in Calcutta.” 

“ Your marriage ! ” and Sheridan stepped back, as 
if recoiling from a reptile. Then, after a pause, as if 
speaking to a condemned culprit, — 

“ Your infamy is deeper than I thought. I did not 
know till now that your victim in Calcutta was also 
your wife.” 

With lightning rapidity Draper saw the dreadful 
confession his error had led him into. He knew that 
Sheridan spoke the truth, and he hurriedly attempted 
to close the grave he had exposed. 

“ She is dead,” he said, searching Sheridan’s face ; 
“ you should have known that, too.” 

“ Dead or alive, God have pity on her ! ” answered 
Sheridan, whose face and voice were filled with revul- 
sion and contempt. “ For her sake, I pray that she 
may be dead; but I do not believe you. I shall 
see that those be warned in time who are still in 
danger.” 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 


59 


Sheridan deliberately turned on his heel and en- 
tered the cabin, while Draper, confounded and dis- 
mayed at his self-conviction, leant on the rail looking 
out at sea, cursing his own stupidity that had be- 
trayed him. 

“ Who else could have known ? ” he muttered ; “ and 
who else could have told her ? But she doesn’t 
wholly believe it — and, when I swore it was false that 
last evening, I think she believed me. I ’ll take care, 
at all events, that he shall have no chance to unsay 
my word.” 

For hours the brooding rascal walked the poop- 
deck, till the watch was changed, when he went below, 
and tried to sleep. 


II. 

COUNTERMINING THE MINER. 

Will Sheridan’s life on the Canton was a restless 
and unhappy one from the night of his altercation 
with Draper. He was daily associated with a man 
who had exposed his own villany ; a caitiff so vile, 
that he had sought,, and probably still intended, to 
blight the life of a girl he had known from childhood. 

The discipline of the ship required a certain courtesy 
and respect toward the first officer. This formal recog- 
nition Will paid, but nothing more. 

A few days after this meeting, Draper made an ad- 
vance toward intimacy; but this was repelled with 
such cold severity as showed him that he had nothing 
to expect in future from Sheridan’s forbearance. 

“ Do not dare to address me as a friend again,” Will 
said, sternly ; “ I shall write to England from the first 
port, and expose you as the scoundrel you are.” 

Draper’s dry lips — his lips were always dry — 


60 


MOONDYNE. 


moved as if lie were speaking, but no words came. 
His shallow eyes became wells of hate. He passed 
by Sheridan without reply, and went to his room. 

There are a hundred ways in which the chief officer 
of a large ship can grind his inferiors ; and Sheridan 
every day felt the subtle malevolence of his enemy. 
But these persecutions he did not heed. He knew 
that underneath these symptoms lay a more danger- 
ous rancor that, sooner or later, would try to do him a 
deadly injury. 

What the form of the attack might be, he knew not. 
But he prepared himself for emergencies. Will Sheri- 
dan was not only a brave and straightforward young 
fellow, but he had a clever head on his shoulders. 

“ Why should I let this cunning scoundrel injure 
me ? ” he asked himself. “ His villany is easily seen 
through, — and I ’m going to watch him closely.” 

He did watch him, and it served him well. Every 
secret and dangerous move he saw and disarranged. 
A trumped-up plan of mutiny among the men — 
which would have excused bloodshed, and the shoot- 
ing of an officer, perhaps, by accident — he nipped in 
the bud, and almost exposed the machinations of him 
who hatched it. 

Draper soon understood that he was playing with 
his master, and changed his method. He began to 
wait for an opportunity instead of making one. 

This will be the case almost invariably ; when hon- 
est men are fighting cowards and slanderers, the surest 
way to defeat them is by constant watchfulness. Evil- 
minded people are generally shallow, and easily counter- 
mined. Only, when they are countermined, they 
should be blown up, and never spared. 

The Canton touched at Singapore for orders, and was 
detained a week. Will Sheridan resolved that on the 
night before she sailed he would leave the ship. Dra- 
per seemed to divine his purpose, and watched him 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 


61 


like a tiger. But Will’s constant attention to duty, 
and his equable temper, deceived the watcher. 

The night before the Canton was to sail, Will dropt 
a bundle into a dingy under the bow, swung himself 
after it, and went ashore. A close search was made 
for him next day by the police, headed by Draper, 
the law in those ports being rigid against deserters. 
But he could not be found, and the Canton sailed 
without her second officer. 

The first thing Will Sheridan did when he knew 
he was out of danger was to write to Mrs. Walms- 
ley, warning her of Draper’s marriage in India. 
This done, he set about getting some sort of employ- 
ment. 

He was in a strange place, and he knew no business 
except that of the sea. In a few days he shipped as 
mate on a bark bound for Western Australia, in the 
sandalwood trade. 

A large and lucrative trade in sandalwood is carried 
on between China, India, and the Penal Colony. Vast 
districts in West Australia are covered with this pre- 
cious wood, which is cut by ticket-of-leave men, and 
shipped to China and India, where it is used in the 
burning of incense in the Joss-houses or temples, and 
in the delicate cabinet and marquetry work which is so 
plentiful in oriental countries. 

This was a life that suited Sheridan’s vigorous tem- 
perament. He found his occupation pleasant, and 
would have quite forgotten the enmity of Draper ; but 
he still feared that his influence over Alice Walmsley 
had not been broken. 

He spent a year in the sandalwood trade, and was 
thinking of taking a trip to England, when he received 
a package through the post office at Shanghai, con- 
taining all his letters, and a brief unfriendly message 
in Alice Walmsley’s handwriting, informing him that 
she was Captain Draper’s wife, and that she scorned 


62 


MOONDYNE. 


the cowardly nature that sought to destroy an honor- 
able man’s good name by malicious falsehood. 

Will Sheridan was dumbfounded and grieved to the 
heart. In all he had previously borne, in his efforts to 
crush out of his heart a hopeless passion almost as 
strong as his life, he had, he thought, sounded the 
depths of his love for Alice Walmsley. But now, when 
he knew her utterly beyond his reach, and saw opening 
before her a desert life of misery and despair, the pity 
in his heart almost killed him. He would have given 
his life then that his enemy might be an honorable 
man. Her letter did not wound him, because he knew 
she had been deceived. 

At first, he knew not what to do. He feared he had 
been hasty — he did not actually know that Draper 
was a villain — his own accusing word was not enough, 
perhaps, or it might bear an explanation. Should he 
write to Alice and take back his cruel charges ? Or 
should he remain silent, and let time unravel the 
trouble ? 

To do the first would be wrong — to do the second 
might be wofully unjust. The true course was to find 
out the truth ; to go to Calcutta and learn for himself : 
and if he were wrong, to publicly make acknowledg- 
ment. If he were right, he could remain silent if it 
were for the best. 

Two months afterward, Will Sheridan returned from 
Calcutta to Shanghai. He had found out the truth. 
He proceeded at once to Western Australia to join his 
ship, and from that time he wrote no more to England. 
One part of his life, the sweet and tender part, without 
fault of his, had suffered wofully, and had died before 
liis eyes. It was shrouded in his memory, and buried 
in his heart. Like a brave man, he would not sit and 
moan over the loss. He set his face to his duty, hoping 
and praying that time would take the gnawing pain 
from his heart. 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 


63 


III. 

THE SANDALWOOD AGENCY. 

About a year after his trip to Calcutta, while his 
ship lay in Shanghai, Sheridan received an invitation 
to dinner from the chief owner, a wealthy and acute 
old Scotchman, whose palatial residence and beautiful 
grounds overlooked the town. He was surprised at 
the courtesy, and showed the invitation to the captain, 
a kind old sailor, who had formed an affection for Will 
from the first. 

“ Go, go, my lad,” said Captain Mathews. “ It ’s a 
piece of luck, no doubt. I ’ve heard that the old man 
lias a daughter, or a niece, though I believe she ’s rather 
tough ; but what ’s that, when she has a shipload of 
money ? You ’re in luck, youngster; of course you ’ll 
go, and in your best rig, too. I ’ll lend you my old 
claw-hammer coat.” 

“ Thank you, Captain,” said Will, smiling inwardly, 
as his eye took in the short but portly dimensions of 
his old friend ; “ but I think I ’ll go as a plain sailor, 
without any pretence at society dress.” 

“ Well, I don’t know but you ’re right, Sheridan,” 
responded the captain ; “ a sailor’s jacket is fit for any 
man or any place, lad, when he who wears it loves his 
profession, and is worthy of it.” 

That evening saw Will Sheridan enter Mr. MacKay’s 
drawing-room, as handsome and gentlemanly a fellow 
as ever gave an order through a trumpet. 

“ Mr. Sheridan,” said the kind old merchant, coming 
forward to meet him, “ you are welcome, for your own 
sake, and for that of a dear old friend. You are 
not aware, I think, tnat your father and I were mid- 
shipmen together forty years ago.” 

Will was surprised, but gratified. He had half ex- 


64 


MOONDYNE. 


pected to be patronized, and indeed was more than 
half prepared to resent such treatment. 

Mr. MacKay presented Will to his family — Mrs. 
MacKay, an invalid, and his step-daughter, Miss Gif- 
ford, a handsome, buxom, good-natured maiden lady of 
a certain age. 

They were all very kind, and they treated Will as 
an old and privileged friend. He forgot all about the 
patronage, and enjoyed himself immensely. Such an 
evening of home life, after years of rugged seafaring, 
was delightfully restful. 

At dinner, Mr. MacKay recalled story after story of 
the time when he and Will’s father were careless 
youngsters on His Majesty’s ship Cumberland . Will 
was still more surprised to find that Mr. MacKay had 
recently been in communication with his father. 

“ I saw your papers, Mr. Sheridan,” explained Mr. 
MacKay ; “ and knowing that my old friend was in the 
Coastguard Service in England, I wrote to him. I 
found I was right in my conclusion ; but I thought I 
would say nothing about the matter for some time. 
You will pardon me when I tell you that I have been 
observing you closely since you entered the service of 
our Company.” 

This was the first reference to their relative positions 
which had been made. Will did not know what to 
answer. 

“You have seen a good deal of our sandalwood 
trade,” said Mr. MacKay, changing the subject; “what 
do you think of its' prospects, Mr. Sheridan ? ” 

This was too extensive* a question for Will, and he 
faltered in his reply. He had, he said, only considered 
his own duties in the trade, and they offered a limited 
scope for observation. 

The old merchant, however, returned to the point. 

“ Captain Mathews tells me that you have expressed 
to him your dissatisfaction at the management of our 
affairs in Western Australia.” 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 


65 


“ No, sir,” answered Will with a smile, “ not with 
the management, but with the mismanagement.” 

“ Ah, just so,” said Mr. MacKay ; “ we will talk 
more about this by-and-by.” 

When the ladies had retired, Mr. MacKay again took 
up the subject. 

“ You think our affairs in Australia are mismanaged, 
then ? ” 

“ Well, sir, it appears to me there is no system what- 
ever on the other side, so far as the Company’s inter- 
ests are concerned.” 

“ How is that ? ” asked the keen business man, open- 
ing his eyes. “ Does not our agent purchase and ship 
the sandalwood ? ” 

“ Yes, he certainly does, and that ’s all he does — 
and that ’s nothing,” said blunt Will, “ at least for the 
Company’s benefit.” 

“ Please explain,” said Mr. MacKay, nervously. 

" Well,” said Will, in his earnest way when in- 
terested, “ as you know, the sandalwood is cut away in 
the bush, from sixty to a hundred miles from the 
shipping-station at Bunbury. It is cut by ticket-of- 
leave men. From them it is bought by speculators, 
who team it to Bunbury ; and from these fellows, who 
manage to control the wood, your agent buys it at the 
wharf, paying whatever price is asked.” 

“ You would have him do more ? ” asked MacKay. 

“ I would change the whole plan, sir, if it were my 
concern. First, I would lease all, or as much as I 
could, of the sandalwood land direct from the Govern- 
ment, then I would set my hired cutters to work, and 
then carry the wood in my own teams to the wharf. 
The original cost can be decreased at least fifty per 
cent. And, besides this, there are other valuable sub- 
stances, such as gum, tan-bark, and skins, that could 
be carried and shipped at the same time.” 

The merchant listened attentively to the broad out- 
5 


GG 


MOONDYNE. 


line of Will’s plans, which he spoke about quite freely, 
as one outside the matter, but familiar with it. 

“ Mr. Sheridan,” said Mr. MacKay at length, “ our 
Company has decided to change our agent in Western 
Australia, and it gives me great pleasure to offer you 
the position. I will see,” he added, interrupting Will’s 
surprised exclamation, “ that you shall have sufficient 
power at your disposal to carry out your ideas with 
regard to the extension of the trade.” 

Will hardly heard another word for the rest of the 
evening. His mind scarcely took in the change — from 
the poor and unknown sailor, at one step, to a man of 
large influence and position, for such would be the 
Australian agent of so wealthy a Company. 

When he returned to the ship his face flamed with 
excitement, as he related the wonderful story to his 
old friend Captain Mathews, who became even more 
excited than Will — and declared many times over 
his glass of “ Old Tom,” that “ they were beginning to 
see things right at last,” and that “ no man could do 
land business so well as him who was trained at sea,” 
and divers other sentences filled with wisdom drawn 
from personal pride and marine philosophy. 


IV. 

THE TEAMSTERS’ TAVERN. 

‘ Curse that fellow ! ” hissed Lame Scotty through 
his clenched teeth, “ I hate him.” The word was em- 
phasized by a blow on the rickety table that made the 
glasses jump. 

The scene was a public house in the little mahogany 
town of Bunbury, Western Australia; the time, six 
months after Will Sheridan had assumed the sandal- 


THE SANDALWOOD TKADE. 


67 


wood agency. The speaker was a tieket-of-leave man, 
a wiry, red-eyed fellow of middle age, whose face had 
the cunning ferocity of a ferret. His auditors were 
a shaggy crowd of woodcutters and ex-convict team- 
sters, the latter group sitting with him at a long 
table. 

“ Don’t talk so loud, Scotty,” said a rough-looking 
man of immense stature, with an axe strapped on 
his back, who leant smoking against the fireplace ; 
“ don’t shout so, my friend, or Agent Sheridan will 
hear it, and kick you out of the team he gave you for 
charity.” 

“ Kick me out ! ” retorted Scotty, with an oath ; “ he 
daren’t touch me. Curse his charity ; he gave me a 
team for his own interest.” 

“ Bah ! ” said the big woodcutter, without moving, 
“ you were always a brag. He gave work and wages 
to you and a lot of your ugly gang there, for downright 
charity ; and, like the hounds you always were, you 
have no thanks in you.” 

Though the gang so broadly referred to were at the 
table with Scotty, no one resented the woodcutter’s 
epithet, though dark looks were flung at him. 

“ This agent has ruined the sandalwood trade,” said 
Scotty, addressing himself to the aroused woodcutters. 
“ Before he came here, a poor man could earn a few 
pounds ; but now we ain’t any better than chain-gang 
men.” 

A murmur of approval from the teamsters followed 
the remark, and Scotty felt that he had struck a popu- 
lar note. Even one or two of the woodcutters at 
another table struck the board in approval. 

“ E o, you ain’ t any better than chain-gang men, 
that ’s true,” said the brawny bearer of the axe, still 
quietly smoking; “ nor you never were. There’s 
where the whole boiling lot of you ought to be still. 
You talk of ruining poor men,” he continued, slightly 


68 


MOONDYNE. 


shifting his position, so as to face Scotty, “you darned 
fox ! I know you — and these men know you,” pointing 
to the group of woodcutters. “ Before this new system 
came with this new agent, you and your rats there had 
the whole trade in your hands. You bought from the 
cutters at your own price, and you paid them in rum. 
You cheated the woodcutters and swindled the dealers, 
till the wonder was that some day you weren’t found 
chopped to pieces for your villany.” 

“ That ’s true as Gospel,” said one of the woodcutters 
who had lately applauded Scotty. “ You ’re an infernal 
set of wampires, you are ! ” 

Scotty and his ill-looking crew realized that the 
woodcutter “ had got the drop on them, dead sure.” 

A stamping and tramping in the outer room or store 
suggested new arrivals, as the place was a kind of inn. 
All eyes were turned on the door, where entered, one 
after another, about a dozen powerful fellows, in the 
picturesque garb of stockriders, who noisily but good- 
humoredly sat them down to the large central table, 
and called for something to eat and drink. 

The interrupted discussion was not resumed, but 
a whispered and earnest comment on the new-comers 
began among Scotty’s gang. 

“ Where do you fellows hail from ? ” asked the big 
woodcutter, after waiting a while, and in a friendly 
tone. 

“ From Dardanup,” said one of the stockriders. The 
whispering between Scotty and his friends ceased, the 
last word passed round being strongly emphasized, 
“ Dardanup Irish” 

There was a colony of Irish settlers at Dardanup, free 
men, who had emigrated there forty years before, when 
the Western Colony was free from the criminal taint. 
The families were all related to each other by inter- 
marriage ; and the men of the whole settlement, who 
had been born and reared in the bush, were famous 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 


69 


throughout the colony for strength, horsemanship, 
good-fellowship, and hard fighting qualities. 

“From Dardanup — eh?” said the big woodcutter, 
with a mischievous smile at Scotty’s group. “ Then 
you be Agent Sheridan’s new teamsters, maybe ? ” 

“ Ay, we ’re going to take those teams up to-morrow,” 
said a strong fellow ; and then, to call the waiter, he 
hammered the table with his enormous fist. 

“Why,” said the woodcutter in his bland way; “it 
might be as you ’re the Maguire boys from Dardanup ? ” 

“ Only eight Maguires in this % crowd,” said the table- 
hammerer, with a pleasant look round the circle. 

Scotty and one or two of his friends here gently 
left their seats, and sauntered toward the door. 

“ Don’t go,” said the woodcutter pressingly ; “ don’t 
be in a hurry, Scotty, man ; why it isn’t ten minutes 
ago since you wanted to chaw up that d d Sheri- 

dan and his teamsters.” 

Scotty scowled at the woodcutter. “A man can 
come and go as he pleases, can’t he ? ” he growled. 

“ 0, ay ; but don’t leave the friends as you wanted 
to meet, just now. Here, you Dardanup fellows, this 
is your ganger in the teams ; this is your ‘ boss,’ as 
Yankee Sullivan says. This is the fellow that says 
Agent Sheridan darsn’t order him, and that the agent 
went down on his knees and begged him to drive his 
black ox team.” 

“ He ’ll never drive it again,” said one of the Dar- 
danup men. 

“ Why won’t he ? ” demanded one of Scotty’s friends. 

“Because I'm going to drive that team,” said the 
six-foot Australian, wheeling his seat with an ominous 
velocity. 

“ Ho, ho ! ha, ha ! ” roared the big woodcutter, enjoy- 
ing the fallen crest of the braggart ; “ but you can’t have 
that team, Maguire ; Scotty will make ribbons of you.” 

And the man with the axe heavily stamped on the 


70 


MOONDYNE. 


floor in his boisterous enjoyment of Scotty’s discom- 
fiture. 

The Dardanup man rose and walked toward Scotty, 
who sank back with so sudden a dismay that he 
stumbled and fell headlong, while a waiter, entering 
with a tray of plates and glasses, tumbled across the 
prostrate bully. 

At this there was a loud laugh, and the six-footer 
from Dardanup sat down again. Scotty, too, was wise 
enough to profit by the hilarity. He picked himself 
up, laughing with the fest. 

“ Come,” he cried in a jolly tone, but with a humil- 
iated aspect, as if he feared his offer would be refused, 

“ let us have a drink and shake hands, no matter who * 
has the teams.” 

“ Bravo ! ” cried the Dardanup men, who were just 
as ready to drink as to fight. 

The bottle was passed round, and every man drank 
with Scotty, except the big woodcutter. 

Scotty handed him the bottle and a glass, noticing 
that he had not tasted. 

“ Ho, thank you,” said the big man, with a shake of 
the head, “ none of that for me.” 

A few moments afterwards one of the Dardanup 
men held up his glass to the big man of the axe. 

“ Drink with me,” he said. 

“ Ay, lad,” said the woodcutter, “ pass your bottle. 

I ’ll drink with you all night.” 

Scotty pretended not to have noted nor heard ; but 
as soon as he could he escaped from the room with his 
associates. The Dardanup men ate a mighty supper, 
and afterwards had a wild time, in which the wood- 
cutter was a partaker. 

Powerful and hearty fellows, full of good-nature, 
but dangerous men to rouse, these *young Australians, 
and their strong blood was excited by the new enter- 
prise they had undertaken. 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 


71 


A combination bad been made among the ticket-of- 
leave teamsters and buyers against the new agent of 
the sandalwood trade, who had revolutionized the old 
system. It had come to a serious pass with the busi- 
ness, and Agent Sheridan, knowing that a weak front 
would invite ruin, had resolved to test the opposition 
at once, rather than wait for its bursting. 

He rode to Dardanup, and called a meeting of the 
stockriders, who, though every one born in Australia, 
and bred to the bush from infancy, had a warm feeling 
for Sheridan, perhaps because of his Irish name. He 
laid the case before them without hiding the danger. 

The ticket-of-leave teamsters were resolved to destroy 
the sandalwood teams of the company, by rolling 
great rocks on them as they passed through the Black- 
wood Gorge. 

The Blackwood Gorge was the narrow bed of a 
stream that wound among the Iron-stone Hills. In 
the rainy season it was filled with a violent flood ; but 
for six months of the year its bed was quite dry, and 
was used as a road to reach the sandalwood districts. 
For more than thirty miles the patient oxen followed 
this rugged bridle path ; and foy the whole distance 
the way zigzagged between the feet of precipices and 
steep mountains. 

It would be an easy matter to block up or destroy a 
slow-moving train in such a gully. And that the dis- 
charged ticket-of-leave teamsters had determined on 
this desperate revenge, the fullest proof was in the 
hands of Agent Sheridan. 

He had considered .the matter well, and he was re- 
solved on a plan of action. He told the Dardanup 
bushmen that he wanted twenty-four men, twelve to 
act as teamsters, and twelve as a reserve. In a few 
minutes he had booked the names and settled the con- 
ditions with two dozen of the strongest and boldest 
men in Western Australia. 


72 


MOONDYNE. 


The meeting in the tavern was the first intimation 
the ticket-of-leave men had that their plan had been 
discovered. 

Next morning, the teams passed peacefully through 
the little town, while the discomfited Scotty and his 
friends looked on from their skulking-places, and 
never stirred a finger. 

That evening, in the tavern, Scotty and his men 
were moodily drinking, and at another table sat half a 
dozen Dardanup stockriders. The woodcutter with the 
axe was smoking, as he lounged against the fireplace. 

“ Why didn’t you Dardanup boys go along with the 
others ? ” he asked the stockriders. 

Scotty and his ill-looking group turned their heads 
to hear the reply. 

“ We stayed behind to watch the wind!” answered 
one, with a laugh. 

“ To watch the wind ? ” queried the big woodcutter. 

“ Ay,” said the Dardanup man, very slowly, and 
looking squarely at the ticket-of-leave teamsters ; “ if 
the wind blows -a stone as big as a turtle’s egg down 
the Blackwood Gorge to-morrow, we ’ll put a swinging 
ornament on every one of those twenty gum trees on 
the square. The rope is ready, and some one ought to 
pray for fine weather. Just one stone,” continued the 
giant, who had risen to light his pipe; and as he 
passed he laid a heavy hand on Scotty’s shoulder, as if 
by chance ; “ just one stone, as big as a turtle’s egg, 
and we begin to reeve that rope.” 

“ Ha, ha ! ho, ho ! ” roared the woodcutter, and the 
shanty shook with his tremendous merriment. When 
his derision had exhausted itself, he sat with the Dar- 
danup men, and drank and sang in great hilarity over 
the routing of Scotty’s gang. 

From that day, the new agent of the sandalwood trade 
was treated with marked respect by all classes in 
Western Australia. 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 


73 


Y. 

IN SEARCH OF HIS SORROW. 

Nine years crowded with successful enterprise had 
made Will Sheridan a strong man in worldly wisdom 
and wealth. His healthy influence had been felt and 
acknowledged all over the West Australian Colony. 
His direct attack on all obstacles never failed, whether 
the harriers were mountains or men. 

He had raised the sandalwood trade into cosmo- 
politan commerce. In nine years he had made a 
national industry for the country in which he lived ; 
had grown rich himself, without selfishly seeking it, 
and in proportion had made millionnaires of the com- 
pany that employed him. 

When men of large intelligence, foresight, and 
boldness, break into new fields, they may gather gold 
by the handful. So it was with this energetic worker. 
His practical mind turned everything into account. 
He inquired from the natives how they cured the 
beautiful soft kangaroo skins they wore as bokas, and 
learned that the red gum, tons of which could be 
gathered in a day, was the most powerful tan in the 
world. 

He at once shipped twenty tons of it to Liverpool 
as an experiment. The next year he transported two 
hundred thousand pounds’ worth ; and five years from 
that time, Australian red gum was an article of uni- 
versal trade. 

He saw a felled boolah-tree change in the rainy 
season into a transparent substance like gum arabic ; 
and three years afterwards, West Australia supplied 
nearly all the white gum in the markets of civili- 
zation. 


74 


MOONDYNE. 


One might conclude that the man who could set 
his mind so persistently at work in this energetic 
fashion must be thoroughly engaged, and that his rapid 
success must have brought with it a rare and solid 
satisfaction. Was it so with Agent Sheridan ? 

Darkest of all mysteries, 0 secret heart of man, 
that even to its owner is unfathomed and occult ! 
Here worked a brave man from year to year, smiled 
on by men and women, transmuting all things to gold ; 
vigorous, keen, worldly, and gradually becoming phil- 
osophic through large estimation of values in men and 
things ; yet beneath this toiling and practical mind of 
the present was a heart that never for one day, through 
all these years, ceased bleeding and grieving for a dead 
joy of the past. 

This was the bitter truth. When riding through 
the lonely and beautiful bush, where everything was 
rich in color, and all nature was supremely peaceful, 
the sleepless under-lying grief would seize on this 
strong man’s heart and gnaw it till he moaned aloud 
and waved his arms, as if to put physically away from 
him the felon thought that gripped so cruelly. 

While working, there was no time to heed the 
pain — no opening for the bitter thought to take shape. 
But it was there always — it was alive under the ice — 
moving in restless throbs and memories. It stirred at 
strange faces, and sometimes it beat wofully at a 
familiar sound. 

No wonder that the man who carried such a heart 
should sooner or later show signs of the hidden sorrow 
in his face. It was so with Will Sheridan. His 
worldly work and fortune belonged only to the nine 
years of his Australian life ; but he knew that the 
life lying beyond was that which gave him happiness 
or misery. 

He became a grave man before his time ; and one 
deep line in his face, that to most people would have 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 75 

denoted his energy and intensity of will, was truly 
graven by the unceasing presence of his sorrow. 

He had loved Alice Walmsley with that one love 
which thorough natures only know. It had grown 
into • his young life as firmly as an organic part of his 
being. When it was torn from him there was left a 
gaping and bleeding wound. And time had brought 
him no cure. 

In the early days of his Australian career he had 
received the news of his father’s death. His mother 
and sister had been well provided for. They implored 
him to come home ; hut he could not bear to hear of 
the one being whose memory filled his existence ; and 
so he never wrote to his people. Their letters ceased ; 
and in nearly nine years he had never heard a word from 
home. 

But now, when his present life was to outward 
appearance all sunshine, and when his future path lay 
through pleasant ways, the hitter thought in his heart 
rankled with unutterable suffering. Neither work nor 
excitement allayed the pang. He shrank from soli- 
tude, and he was solitary in crowds. He feared to 
give rein to grief ; yet alone, in the moonlit bush, he 
often raised his face and hands to heaven, and cried 
aloud in his grievous pain. 

At last the thought came that he must look his 
misery in the face — that he must put an end to all 
uncertainty. Answering the unceasing yearning in 
his breast, he came to a decision. 

“I must go home,” he said aloud one day, when' 
riding alone in the forest. “ I must go home — if only 
for one day.” 


76 


MOONDYNE. 


VI. 

THE DOOR OF THE CELL. 

It was winter again. A sunburnt, foreign-looking 
man stood on the poop deck of a steamer ploughing 
with decreased speed past the docks in the long line 
of Liverpool shipping. The man was young, but, 
with deep marks of care and experience on his face, 
looked nearly ten years older than he really was. 
Prom the face, it was hard to know what was passing 
in the heart ; but that no common emotion was there 
might be guessed by the rapid stride and the impatient 
glance from the steamer’s progress to the shore. 

It was Will Sheridan; but not the determined, 
thoughtful Agent Sheridan of the Australian sandal- 
wood trade. There was no quietness in his soul now ; 
there was no power of thought in his brain ; there 
was nothing there but a burning fever of longing to 
put his foot on shore ; and then to turn his face to the 
one spot that had such power to draw him from the 
other side of the world. 

As soon as the steamer was moored, heedless of the 
Babel of voices around him, the stranger passed 
through the crowd, and entered the streets of Liver- 
pool. But he did not know the joy of an exile re- 
turning after a weary absence. He did not feel that 
he was once more near to those who loved him. It 
was rather to him as if he neared their graves. 

The great city in which he walked was as empty to 
him as the great ocean he had just left. Unobservant 
and unsympathetic, looking straight before him, and 
seeing with the soul’s vision the little coast village of 
his boyhood, he made his way to the railway station, 
bought a ticket for home, and took his place in the car. 

At first, the noise and rush of the train through the 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 


77 


cold evening of a winter day, was a relief to the rest- 
less traveller. The activity fell upon his morbid heart 
like a cold hand on a feverish forehead. But, as the 
sun sank, and the cheerless gray twilight crept round 
him, the people who had travelled from the city were 
dropped at the quiet country stations, and sped away 
to their happy homes. 

A man came and lighted a lamp in the carriage, 
and all the outer world grew suddenly dark. The 
traveller was alone now ; and, as the names of the way- 
side stations grew more familiar, a stillness fell upon 
him, against which he made no struggle. 

At last, as once more the train moved to a station, 
he arose, walked slowly to the door, and stepped on 
the platform. He was at the end of his journey — 
he was at home. 

At home ! He passed through the little station- 
house, where the old porter stared at his strange face 
and strange clothes, and wondered why he did not ask 
the way to the village. On he strode in the moonlight, 
glancing at familiar things with every step ; for ten 
years had brought little change to the quiet place. 
There were the lone trees by the roadside, and the 
turnpike, and down in the hollow he saw the moon’s 
face reflected through the ice in the millpond; and 
seeing this, he stopped and looked, but not with the 
outward eye, and he saw the merry skaters, and Alice’s 
head was on his shoulder, and her dear voice in his 
ear, and all the happy love of his boyhood flooded his 
heart, as he bowed his face in his hands and sobbed. 

Down the main street of the village he walked, 
glancing at the bright windows of the cottage homes, 
that looked like smiles on well-known faces. He 
passed the post office, the church, and the inn ; and a 
few steps more brought him to the corner of his own 
little street. 

The windows of the Drapers’ house were lighted, as 


78 


MOONDYNE. 


if for a feast or merry-making within ; but he passed 
on rapidly, and stopped before the garden-gate of the 
widow’s cottage. There, all was dark and silent. He 
glanced through the trees at his own old home, which 
lay beyond, and saw a light from the kitchen, and the 
moonlight shining on the window of his own room. 

But here, where he longed for the light, there was 
no light. He laid his hand on the gate, and it swung 
open before him, for the latch was gone. He passed 
through, and saw that the garden-path was rank with 
frozen weeds, and the garden was itself a wilderness. 
He walked on and stood in the porch, and found a bank 
of snow against the bottom of the cottage door, which 
the wind had whirled in there, perhaps a week before. 

He stood in the cheerless place for a moment, look- 
ing into his heart, that was as empty as the cottage 
porch, and as cold ; and then he turned and walked 
down the straight path, with almost the same feeling 
that had crushed him so cruelly eleven years before. 

He passed oil to his own home, which had been 
shut out from his heart by the, cloud that covered 
his way ; and a feeling of reproach came upon him, for 
his long neglect of those who loved him. Those who 
loved him ! there was a something warming in his 
heart, and rising against the numbness that had stilled 
it in the cottage porch. He stood before the door 
of his old home, and raised his hand and knocked 
twice. 

The door opened, and a strange face to William 
Sheridan met his look. Choking back a something 
in his throat, he said, with an effort : — 

“ Is this Mrs. Sheridan’s house ? ” 

“ It was Mrs. Sheridan’s house, sir,” answered the 
man ; “ but it is my house now. Mrs. Sheridan is 
dead.” 

Another cord snapped, and the stranger in his own 
place turned from the door with a moan in his heart. 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 


79 


As he turned, a young woman came from within to 
the porch ; and the man, with a sudden exclamation, 
stepped after him, and placing his hand on his shoul- 
der, said earnestly, “ Be this William Sheridan, that 
we thought were dead ? ” and, ‘looking in his face and 
recognizing him, he muttered, “ Poor lad ! poor lad ! 
dont ’ee know thy old schoolmate, Tom Bates, and thy 
own sister Mary ? ” 

Taking him by the arm, the kind fellow led Sheri- 
dan to the door, and said : — 

“ Wife, here be thy brother Will, safe and sound, and 
not drownded, as Sam Draper told us he were — and 
d — n that same Draper for all his evil doin’s ! ” 

Then William Sheridan felt his kind sister’s arms on 
his neck, and the associations of his youth thronged 
up like old friends to meet him, and with them came 
the sweet spirit of his boy’s love for Alice. They 
came to his heart like stormers to a city’s gate, and, 
seeing the breach, they entered in, and took posses- 
sion. For the second time that night, the strong man 
bowed his head, and sobbed — not for a moment as 
before, but long and bitterly, for the suppressed feel- 
ings were finding a vent at last ; the bitterness of his 
sorrow, so long and closely shut in, was flowing freely. 

Brother and sister were alone during this scene ; 
but after a while, Mary’s kind-hearted husband entered, 
a rugged but tender-hearted Lancashire farmer; and 
knowing that much was to be said to Will, and that 
this was the best time to say it, he began at once ; 
but he knew, and Will Sheridan knew, that he began 
at the farthest point he could from what he would 
have to say before the end. Will Sheridan’s face was 
turned in the shadow, where neither his sister nor her 
husband could see it, and so he listened to the story. 

“Will,” said his brother-in-law, “tha knows ’tis 
more’n six years since thou went to sea, and that gret 
changes have come to thee since then ; and tha knows, 


80 


MOONDYNE. 


lad, thou must expect that changes as gret have come 
to this village. Thy father took sick about a year after 
thou went, and grieved that he didn’t hear from thee. 
Samuel Draper wrote to his people that thou ’d turned 
out a bad lad, in foreign countries, and had to run 
away from the ship ; and when that news came, it 
made th’ old people sorrowful. Thy father took to 
his bed in first o’ th’ winter, and was dead in a few 
months. Thy mother followed soon, and her last 
words were a blessing for thee if thou were living. 
Then Samuel Draper came back from sea, looking fine 
in his blue uniform ; and he said he ’d heard thou ’d 
been drownded on a voyage from China. He went to 
sea again, six months after, and he ’s never been here 
since ; and ’tis unlikely,” Mary’s husband said very 
slowly, “ that he ever will come to this village any more.” 

Tom Bates ceased speaking, as if all were told, and 
stared straight at the fire; his wife Mary, who was 
sitting on a low seat near him, drew closer, and laid 
her cheek against his side, weeping silently ; and he 
put his big hand around her head and caressed it. 

Will Sheridan sat motionless for about a minute, 
and then said, in a hard monotone : — 

“ What became of Alice Walmsley ? Did she — Is 
she dead, also ? ” 

“ Hay, not dead,” said his brother-in-law, " but worse 
than that. Alice Walmsley is in prison ! ” 

Will Sheridan raised his head at the word, repeat- 
ing it to himself in blank amazement and dread. Then 
he stood up, and faced round to the two people who sat 
before him, his sister hiding her weeping face against 
her husband’s side, the husband patting her head 
in a bewildered way, and both looking as if they 
were the guilty parties who should be in prison 
instead of Alice. 

Had they said that sh§ was dead, or even that she 
was married, he could have faced the news manfully, 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 


81 


for he had prepared his heart for it ; but now, when 
he had come home and thought he could bear all, he 
found that his years of struggle to forget had been in 
vain, and that a gulf yawned at his feet deeper and 
wider than that he bad striven so long to fill up. 

“ In the name of God, man, tell me what you mean. 
Why is Alice Walmsley in prison ? ” . 

Poor Tom Bates still stared at the fire, and patted 
his wife’s head ; but a moment after Sheridan asked 
the question, he let his hand close quietly round the 
brown hair, and raising his eyes to Will’s face, said, in 
a low voice : — 

“ For murder. For killing her child ! ” 

Will Sheridan looked at him with a pitiful face, and 
uttered a sound like the baffled cry of a suffering 
animal that finds the last door of escape shut against it. 

His brother-in-law knew that now was the time to 
tell Will all, while his very soul was numbed by the 
strength of the first blow. 

“ They wore married in the church, as you know,” 
said Mary’s husband, “ and they lived together for 
some time, seeming very happy — though Mary and I 
said, when it was all over, that from the very day of 
the wedding there was a shadow on Alice’s face, and 
that she was never seen to smile. Draper was a cap- 
tain, and his ship was going to India, and Alice 
wanted very bad to go with him. But he refused her 
at last so roughly, before her mother, that poor little 
Allie said no more. Five months after his going, her 
child was born, and for six months the poor ailing 
thing looked like her old self, all smiles and kindness 
and love for the little one. Then, one day, there 
walked into her house a strange woman, who said that 
she was Samuel Draper’s wife. No one knows what 
passed between them — they two were alone ; but the 
woman showed the papers that proved what she said. 
She was a desperate woman, and with no one else in the 
6 


$2 


MOONDYNE. 


house, she was like to kill poor Alice with her dread- 
ful words. Alice’s heart was changed to stone from 
that minute. The woman left the village that day, 
and never was seen here again. But that night the 
little child was found dead beside the mother — with 
marks of violence on it. Poor lass ! she was charged, 
wi’ killing it — she made no defence ; she never raised, 
her head nor said a word She might have told, how 
the thing happened, for we knew — Mary and I 
knew — that Alice never did that. But she couldn’t 
speak in her own defence — all she wanted was to get 
out of sight, and hide her poor head. Poor little 
Allie — poor little Allie ! She never raised her hand to 
hurt her child. It was accident, or it was some one 
else — but she couldn’t or wouldn’t speak. She was sent 
to prison, and her mother died from the blow. God help 
the poor lass to-night ! God help poor little Allie ! ” 
And the warm heart overflowed, and husband and 
wife mingled their tears for the lost one. 

“ And this was Samuel Draper’s work ? ” asked 
Sheridan, slowly. 

“ Ay, damn him for a scoundrel ! ” said the strong 
yeoman, starting to his feet, and clenching his fist, the 
tears on his cheeks, and his voice all broken with 
emotion. “He may keep away from this village, 
where the people know him ; but there’s no rest for 
him on this earth — no rest for such as he. Mother 
and child curse him — one from the grave, the other 
from the prison ; and sea or land cannot shut them 
out from his black heart. Her father was a seaman, 
too, and he ’ll sail wi’ him until the villain pays the 
debt to the last farthing. And Allie’s white face will 
haunt him, even in sleep, with her dead child in 
her arms. Oh, God help poor Allie to night ! God 
comfort the poor little lassie ! ” 

William Sheridan said no more that night. His sis- 
ter prepared his own old room for him, and he went to 


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83 


it, but not to sleep. Up and down he walked like a 
caged animal, moaning now and again, without follow- 
ing the meaning of the words : — • 

“ Why did I come here ? 0, why did I come here ? ” 
He felt that he could not bear this agony much 
longer — that he must think, and that he must pray. 
But he could do neither. There was one picture in 
his mind, in his eye, in his heart, — a crouching figure 
in a dock, with a brown head sunk on her white hands, 
— and were he to try to get one more thought into his 
brain, it would burst and drive him mad. 

And how could he pray — how could he kneel, while 
the miscreant walked the earth who had done all this ? 
But from this hateful thought he reverted wfith fresh 
agony to her blighted heart. Where was she that 
night ? How could he find her and help her ? If he 
could only pray for her, it would keep him from delirium 
until he saw her. 

And he sank on his knees by the bed where he had 
knelt by his mother’s side and learned to pray ; and 
again the old associations came thronging to- his heart, 
and softened it. The sweet face of his boy’s love drew 
to him slowly from the mist of years ; and gradually 
forgetting self, and remembering only her great sorrow, 
he raised up his face in piteous supplication, acknowl- 
edging his utter dependence on divine strength, and 
prayed as he had never prayed before. Such prayers 
are never offered in vain. A wondrous quiet came to 
the troubled heart, and remained with it. 

When he arose from his knees, he looked upon every 
familiar object around him with awakened interest, and 
many things that he had forgotten came back to his 
memory and affection when he saw them there. Be- 
fore he lay down to rest, for he felt that he must sleep, 
he looked through the window at the deserted cottage, 
and had strength to think of its former inmates. 

“ God give her peace, and in some way enable me 


84 


MOONDYNE. 


to bring comfort to her/’ he said. And when he arose 
in the morning this thought was uppermost in his 
mind — that he must search for means to bear comfort 
to the afflicted heart of Alice Walmsley. 

From his sister and her husband he learned that 
Alice was confined in Millbank Prison in London, and 
he made up his mind to go to London that day. They, 
seeing that he was determined on his course, made no 
effort to oppose him. He asked them not to mention 
his visit to any one in the village, for he did not wish 
to be recognized; and so he turned from the kind- 
hearted couple, and walked toward the railway station. 

Sheridan now remembered that he had brought from 
Western Australia some letters of introduction, and 
also some official despatches ; and he thought it might 
be a fortunate circumstance that most of the official 
letters were addressed to the Colonial Office and the 
Board of Directors of Convict Prisons. 

In the Penal Colony of Western Australia, where 
there are few free settlers, and an enormous criminal 
population, a man of Sheridan’s standing and influence 
was rarely found ; and the Government of the Colony 
was desirous of introducing him to the Home Govern- 
ment, knowing that his opinions would be treated with 
great consideration. He began to think that these let- 
ters might be the means he sought for, and he made up 
his mind to deliver them at once. 


VII. 

MILLBANK. 

Arrived in London, he proceeded at once to the 
Colonial Office, and left his letters for the Secretary, 
and with them his address in the metropolis. He went 


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85 


through the same routine with the despatches for the 
Prison Directors. Then, though his heart craved in- 
stant action, he was forced to exercise his patience, to 
wait until these high and perhaps heedless officials 
were pleased to recognize his presence. 

The great city was a wonder to him ; but in his in- 
tense pre-occupatiom he passed through it as if it had 
been familiar from childhood. On the day after his 
arrival, not expecting an answer from the officials, one 
of whom, the Colonial Secretary, was a Cabinet Minis- 
ter, he tried to interest himself in the myriad strange- 
nesses of London. He visited Westminster Abbey and 
the British Museum. But, everywhere, his heart heat 
the same dolorous key ; he saw the white face, the 
slight crouching figure in the dock, the brown hair 
bowed in agony and disgrace. On the walls of the 
great picture-gallery the gilded frames held only this 
pitiful scene. Among the tombs of the kings in West- 
minster, he thought, of her ruined life and shattered 
hope, and envied, for her sake, the peace of the sleep- 
ing marble knights and ladies. 

All day, without rest or food, he wandered aimlessly 
and wretchedly through the sculptured magnificence 
of the galleries. When the night closed, he found him- 
self, almost unconscious of how he had come to the 
place, or who had directed him thither, walking with 
bared and feverish brow beneath a high and gloomy 
wall — the massive outer guard of Millbank Prison. 

Hour sped after hour, yet round and round the 
shadowy, silent precipice of wall the afflioted heart 
wandered with tireless feet. It was woful to think 
how near she was, and to touch the sullen granite — 
yet it was a thousand times more endurable than the 
torture and fear that were born of absence. 

Surely, if there be any remote truth in the theory of 
psychic magnetism, the afflicted soul within those walls 
must have felt the presence of the loving and suffering 


86 


MOONDYNE. 


heart without, which sent forth unceasingly silent cries 
of sympathy and comfort. Surely, if communion of 
living spirits be possible, the dream of the lonely pris- 
oner within must have thrilled with tenderness when 
his fevered lips were pressed as lovingly to the icy 
stone of the prison wall, as once they were pressed to 
her forehead in affectionate farewell. 

Back to his hotel, when morning was beginning to 
break, the lonely watcher went, spiritless and almost 
despairing. The reaction had begun of his extreme 
excitement for the past four days. He passed along 
the lonesome rivei^that hurried through the city like 
a thief in the night, flashing under the yellow quay- 
lights, then diving suddenly beneath dark arches or 
among slimy keels, like a hunted murderer escaping 
to the sea. Wild and incoherent fancies flashed through 
Will’s feverish mind. Again and again he was forced 
to steady himself, by placing his hand on the parapet, 
or he should have fallen in the street, like a drunken 
man. 

At last he reached his hotel, and flung himself on 
his bed, prayerless, friendless, and only saved from 
despair by the thought of an affliction that was deeper 
than his, which he, as a man and a faithful friend; 
should be strong to relieve and comfort. 

It was past noon when he awoke. The fever had 
passed, and much of the dejection. While dressing, he 
was surprised to find his mind actively at work form- 
ing plans and surmises for the day’s enterprise. 

At breakfast, a large official letter was brought him. 
It was a brief but unofficially-cordial message from the 
Colonial Secretary, Lord George Somers, appointing an 
hour — two o’clock on that day — when lie should be 
happy to receive Mr. Sheridan at the Colonial Office. 

Under other circumstances such an appointment 
would have thrown off his balance a man so unused to 
social or formal ways as this stranger from Australia, 


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87 


whose only previous training had been on a merchant 
ship. But now, Will Sheridan prepared for the visit 
without thinking of its details. His mind was fastened 
on a point beyond this meeting. 

Even the formal solemnity of the powdered servant 
who received him had no disturbing effect. Will 
Sheridan quite forgot the surroundings, and at length, 
when ushered into the presence of the Colonial Secre- 
tary, his native dignity and intelligence were in full 
sway, and the impression he made on the observant 
nobleman was instantaneous and deep. 

He was received with more than courtesy. Those 
letters, Lord Somers said, from Australia, had filled 
him with interest and desire to see a man who had 
achieved so much, and who had so rapidly and solidly 
enriched and benefited the Colony. 

The Colonial Secretary was a young man for his 
high position — certainly not over forty, while he 
might be still younger. He had a keen eye, a mobile 
face, that could turn to stony rigidity, but withal a 
genial and even frank countenance when conversing 
cordially with this stranger, whom he knew to be in- 
fluential, and w T ho certainly was highly entertaining. 

Will Sheridan was soon talking fluently and well. 
He knew all about the Penal Colony, the working of 
the old penal system and the need of a new one, the 
value of land, the resources of the country, the capabil- 
ities for commerce; and all this the Secretary was 
most anxious to learn. 

After a long interview, Sheridan rose to take leave, 
and the Secretary said he hoped to see a great deal of 
him before his return to Australia, and told him 
plainly that the opinions of a settler of wealth and 
intelligence on colonial matters in Western Australia 
were just then of special importance to the Govern- 
ment. He also wished it were in his power to give 
Mr. Sheridan pleasure while he remained in England. 


83 


MOONDYNE. 


There was only one thought in Sheridan’s mind all 
this time, and now was the moment to let it work. 
He said he desired very much to visit the convict 
prisons in England, and compare the home system 
with that of the Penal Colony. 

The minister was gratified by the request, and, 
smiling, asked which prison he would visit first. Will 
mentioned Millbank ; and the minister with his own 
hand wrote a few lines to the governor, and handed 
the paper to his visitor. 

Will Sheridan took his departure, with a tremulous 
hope at his heart, and drove straight to Millbank 
Prison. 

There is something strange, almost unaccountable, 
and yet terrible, in the change that appears in half a 
century in the building of prisons. Few people have 
thought of this, perhaps ; but it contains a suggestion 
of a hardening of hearts and a lessening of sentiment. 
The old prisons were dark and horrible, even in aspect ; 
while the new ones are light and airy. In the latter, 
the bar takes the place of a wall — and the bar is often 
ornamented with cast-iron flowers and other sightly 
but sardonic mockery. Better the old dungeon, with 
all its gloom ; better for the sake of humanity. The 
new prison is a cage — a hideous hive of order and 
commonplace severity, where the flooding sunlight is 
a derision, and the barred door only a securer means of 
confinement. For the sake of sentiment, at least, let 
us have the dismal old keep, that proclaims its mission 
on its dreadful brow, rather than the grinning bar- 
gate that covers its teeth-like rails with vulgar metal 
efflorescence. 

The great penitentiary of Millbank is, or rather was, 
an old-fashioned prison, its vast arched gateway som- 
bre and awful as a tomb. It has disappeared now, 
having been pulled down in 1875 ; but tho£e who 
visited it once, or who even passed it, will never forget 


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89 


the oppression caused by its grated and frowning por- 
tal. In the early part of this century, the Govern- 
ment of Great Britain determined to build an immense 
penitentiary, on the plan laid down by J eremy Ben- 
tham in his celebrated “ Panopticon, or the Inspection 
House.” Bentham’s scheme proposed a colossal pris- 
on, which should contain all England’s convicts and dis- 
pense entirely with transportation. The Government, 
acting on his plan, purchased a large and unhealthy 
tract of flat land, lying beside the Thames, and on this 
the unique structure was raised. The workmen were 
ten years in completing it ; but, when it was finished, 
Englishmen said that it was the model prison of the 
world. 

And it certainly was a great improvement on the 
older prisons, where those confined were often herded, 
many in a room, like cattle — the -innocent with the 
guilty, the young and pure with the aged and the foul. 
In Millbank, every prisoner had his or her own cell — 
a room of stone, walls, ceiling and floor, with a large 
and heavily-barred window. Each cell was eight feet 
square. The prison was built in six vast pentagons, 
radiating from a central hexagon, from which every 
cell was visible. 

The entrance to the prison, from the street, was a 
wonder of architectural gloom. First, there was a 
dark archway of solid masonry, from the roof of which, 
about six feet from the portal, sprang a heavy grate or 
portcullis, with spear-points apparently ready to fall 
and cut the unfortunate off for ever from the world. 
Ear within the arch appeared a mighty iron gate, pon- 
derously barred, with an iron wicket, through which an 
armed warder could be seen on sentry within the yard. 

These details were not noticed by Will Sheridan as 
he entered the echoing archway ; but he was chilled, 
nevertheless, by the cold shadow of the surroundings. 
The warder within came to the wicket, and took the 


90 


MOONDYNE. 


letter, leaving Will outside. In a few minutes, lie 
found that his introduction was an “open sesame.” 
The governor of Millbank himself, an important gen- 
tleman in a black uniform with heavy gold facings, 
came speedily to the wicket, the ponderous bars were 
flung back, the awful door rolled aside, and Will Sher- 
idan entered. 

The governor was very gracious to his distinguished 
visitor. On learning his desire to see the arrange- 
ments of the prison he himself became the guide. 

An hour was spent in the male side of the establish- 
ment, which was an age to Will Sheridan. While the 
governor thought his attention was engaged in observ- 
ing the features or motions of some caged malefactor, 
the mind and fancy of the visitor were far otherwise 
employed. He did not see the wretched, crime-stained 
countenances in the cells he passed ; but in every one 
he saw the white face, the brown hair, and the crouch- 
ing figure that filled his mind. 

At last the governor asked him to visit the female 
prison, in which the discipline was necessarily differ- 
ent. They passed through a long passage built in the 
wall, and entered the corridors of the female prison. 

Sheridan’s heart beat, and the blood fled from his 
face, leaving him ghastly pale, as he passed the -first 
iron door. He feared that the governor might notice his 
agitation; and he wondered how he should learn 
whether Alice were there or not. 

As he walked down the corridor he noticed that on 
every door was hung a white card, and, approaching, he 
read the name, crime, and sentence of the prisoner 
printed thereon. This was a relief to him: as he 
walked he read the name on every card, and on and on 
they went, up stairs and down, and round and round 
the pentagons, until he thought she surely was not in 
the prison, and the governor concluded that his visitor 
evidently meant to see all that was to be seen. 


THE SANDALWOOD TKADE. 


91 


When the last corridor on the ground floor was 
entered, Will read every name on the doors with a 
despairing persistence, and his heart sank within him 
as he came to the last. 

The governor opened the door at the end of the pas- 
sage, and they entered a light, short corridor, with 
large and pleasantly-lighted cells. Here, the governor 
said, were confined those prisoners, who, by extreme 
good conduct, had merited less severe treatment than 
the others. 

Will Sheridan’s heart leaped within him, for he knew 
that this was the place he should see her. 

On the doors were simply printed the names and 
sentences of the occupants; and at the fourth door 
Will stopped, and read the card : — 


ALICE WALMSLEY. 

LIFE. 


Seeing him pause, and intently examine the card, 
the governor beckoned to the female warder, who was 
in the passage, to come and open the door. 

The woman approached, the key in her hand, and 
stood aside until the gentlemen withdrew from the 
door. Will turned and read her intention, and with a 
shudder he put her back with his hand. 

“ No, no, not her,” he said hurriedly ; then recollect- 
ing himself : “No, no, the prisoners do not like to be 
stared at.” 

Next moment, before he could think of the conse- 
quences, he turned again, and speaking rapidly, said, — 



MOONDYNE. 


9.2 


« I am wrong. I should like to see — I should like 
to see the interior of this cell.” 

The lock clicked hack, the heavy iron door swung 
open, and William Sheridan saw Alice Walmsley 
before him. 

She had been sewing on something coarse and white, 
and a heap of the articles lay at her feet. As the 
door opened, she stood up from the low seat on which 
she had sat in the centre of the stone-floored cell, and, 
with her eyes on the ground, awaited the scrutiny of 
the visitors, according to prison discipline. 

. Will Sheridan took in the whole cell at once, al- 
though his eyes only rested on her face. She never 
looked on him, but stood in perfect calmness, with her 
eyes cast down. 

She was greatly changed, but so differently changed 
to Will’s expectations, that he stood amazed, stunned. 
He had pictured her fragile, broken, spiritless, wretched. 
There she stood before him, grown stronger than when 
he had known her, quiet as a statue, with a face not 
of happiness, but of intensified peace, and with all 
that was beautiful in her as a girl increased a thou- 
sand-fold, but subdued by suffering. Her rich brown 
hair had formerly been cut close, but now it had 
grown so long that it fell to her shoulders. Her face 
was colorless for want of open air and sunshine. A 
casual observer would have said she was happy. 

Something of her peace fell upon William Sheridan 
as he looked upon her. Suddenly he was recalled to 
consciousness by a simple movement of hers as if 
averse to inspection. His heart quickened with fear and 
sorrow for his impulsive action in entering the cell, for 
now he would give all he possessed that she should 
not look upon his face. He turned from her quick- 
ly and walked out of the cell, and he did not look 
round until he heard the heavy door swing into its 
place. 


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93 


When he had walked so far from the cell that she 
could not hear his voice, he asked the governor what 
work these privileged prisoners were engaged in, and 
was almost startled into an exclamation of astonish- 
ment when the governor answered : — 

“ They are just now engaged on a pleasant task for 
themselves. They are making their outfit for the Penal 
Colony.” 

“Is she — is that prisoner going to the Penal Col- 
ony ? ” asked Will Sheridan, scarcely able to control 
his emotion. 

“Yes, sir; she and all those in this pentagon will 
sail for Western Australia in the next convict ship,” 
said the governor. “We shall send three hundred men 
and fifty women in this lot.” 

“ When does the ship sail ? ” asked the visitor, still 
apparently examining the door-cards. 

“On the 10th of April — just three months hence,” 
answered the governor. 

With his eyes fixed on a ponderous door, which he 
did not see, Will Sheridan made a sudden and im- 
perative resolution. 

“ I shall return to Australia on that convict ship,” 
were the words that no one heard but his own soul. 

“ I thank you, sir, for your courtesy and attention,” 
he said, next moment, to the governor; “and as I 
wish to examine more closely the working of your 
system, I shall probably trouble you again.” 

The governor assured him that his visits to the 
prison would be at all times considered as compli- 
mentary; and Will Sheridan walked from Millbank 
with a firmer step and a more restful spirit than he had 
known for ten years. 


94 


MOONDYNE. 


VIII. 

SIR JOSHUA HOBB’S CONVICT-MILL. 

Lord Somers, the Colonial Secretary, had evidently 
conceived a high opinion of Mr. Sheridan from his first 
brief visit. He soon renewed the acquaintance by 
requesting another interview. In the course of a few 
weeks their relations had become almost friendly. 

Their conversation was usually about the Australian 
colonies, on which subject the Secretary found Sheri- 
dan to be a perfect encyclopaedia. It seemed that 
every possibility of their condition, latent as well as 
operative, had come into his practical mind, and had 
been keenly considered and laid aside. 

But Sheridan was a child in London. He was 
supremely ignorant of everything that this nobleman 
considered necessary to existence. He knew nothing 
of British or European politics — did not even know 
who was Prime Minister. It gratified the genial 
and intelligent Englishman, on their frequent rides 
through the city, to impart information and pleasure 
to his Australian friend. 

One day Mr. Sheridan received another large official 
letter, this time from the Chief Director of Convict 
Prisons, Sir Joshua Hobb, who, without apologizing for 
the delayed acknowledgment of Mr. Sheridan’s letter, 
asked him to meet the Board of Directors on the next 
day at noon, at the Department in Parliament Street. 

Sheridan kept the appointment, and became ac- 
quainted with the half-dozen men to whose hands 
Great Britain had intrusted the vast burden of punish- 
ing and reforming the criminal class. 

Half an hour’s conversation, though of a general 
nature, astonished Will Sheridan, by convincing him 
of the stupendous conceit and incompetence of these 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 


95 


men. They talked glibly about the weight of a pris- 
oner's loaf, and the best hour to light the cells in the 
morning ; they had statistics at their finger-ends to 
show how much work a convict could perform on a 
given number of ounces of meat; but they knew 
nothing whatever of the large philosophy of penal 
government. 

The Chief Director, Sir Joshua Hobb, however, was 
an exception, in so far as he had ideas. He was a 
tall, gaunt man, of fifty, with an offensive hauteur , 
which was obviously from habit rather than from 
nature. His face said plainly : “ I know all — these 
gentlemen know nothing-^ it is not necessary that 
they should — I am the Convict System.” He re- 
minded Sheridan of a country pedagogue promoted 
to high position for some narrow piece of special 
knowledge. He looked superciliously at Sheridan, as 
if to ask — “ Do you mean to pretend, before me, that 
you know anything about prisons ? ” 

“ Confound this fellow !•” said Sheridan to himself, 
five minutes after meeting him ; “ he deliberately de- 
layed acknowledging my letters, to show his import- 
ance.” 

But Sir Joshua Hobb was an “expert” in penal 
systems. He had graduated from a police court, where 
he had begun as an attorney ; and he was intimately 
acquainted with the criminal life of England in its 
details. But he had no soul for the awful thought 
of whence the dark stream came, nor whither it was 
going. He was merely a dried mudbank to keep it 
within bounds for a little way. 

The admiration of his colleagues was almost rever- 
ential. Mr. Sheridan was informed by several of the 
Board — in subdued voice, of course, so that the great 
reformer should not be put to the blush — of his 
wonderful successes in the treatment of criminals. 

' “ They all hate him,” said Mr. Pettegrew, one of the 


96 


MOONDYNE. 


Board, — "I give you my word, sir, that every criminal 
in England hates the name of Sir Joshua Hobb. He 
has made them feel his power, sir, and they know 
him.” 

“ He was knighted by the Queen for his Separate 
System,” said another Director. 

“ Is that # your present system ? ” asked Sheridan. 

“No,” said the Director. “At present we are on 
the other tack.” 

“ The Separate System was a failure, then ? ” inquired 
Mr. Sheridan. 

“Not a failure, sir, but it was abandoned out of 
regard to the sentimental reformers. It increased in- 
sanity from 12 to 31 per 1,000. Sir Joshua himself 
was the first to find it out.” 

“ And then you adopted the Public-Works System, 
did you not ? ” asked Sheridan. 

“ No, not so soon. When his Separate System failed, 
Sir Joshua introduced the mask — a cloth skull-cap 
coming down over the face, with eyelet-holes — to 
promote a salutary shame in the prisoners. He was 
made a Knight Commander of the Bath for that 
wonderful invention.” 

“ Then that system gave beneficial results ? ” inquired 
Mr. Sheridan. 

“Well, there was no doubt of its moral excellence ; 
but it increased the insanity from 31 to 39 \ per 1,000. 
Sir Joshua ‘himself was the first to discover this, also.” 

“ He certainly deserves the name of a discoverer,” 
thought Sheridan. Then aloud, — 

“ And your present system is his invention, also ? ” 

“ Yes, our present system is wholly his. We are 
just now examining results. We discover one peculi- 
arity, which Sir Joshua hardly knows how to class ; 
but he says it certainly is a proof of progress.” 

“ May I ask what is this peculiarity ? ” inquired Mr. 
Sheridan. 


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97 


“ That within three years insanity has decreased 2 
per cent,” answered the Director, “ while suicide has 
increased 17 per 1,000.” 

“ Sir Joshua inclines to the opinion,” said another 
Director, who was listening, “that this fact proves 
that we are at last getting to bear closely on the 
criminal principle. The law is touching it — there is 
no escape — and in despair the baffled criminals give 
up the fight, and kill themselves.” 

There was something fearfully repugnant to Sheri- 
dan’s broad and humane view in all this, and he would 
gladly have escaped from the place. But the Direc- 
tors meant to impress him with their ability to manage 
the entire Penal System, both in Australia and Eng- 
land. To secure this general management, Sir Joshua 
Hobb had recently introduced a bill to Parliament. 

“ Have you heard, sir,” said Sir J oshua, addressing 
Sheridan with a patronizing kindness, “ of the pro- 
posals made to the Government as to penal reform, 
by Mr. Wyville, of Western Australia ? ” 

“ ISTo,” answered Sheridan, smiling at his own igno- 
rance. “I have never even heard of Mr. Wyville.” 

“Indeed!” said Sir Joshua, with a stare of rude 
surprise. “ He is the most influential man in the West 
Australian Penal Colony.” 

“I never heard his name before,” simply answered Will. 

“ He, perhaps, resides in a district far from yours, 
Mr. Sheridan,” said one of the Directors. “ Mr. Wy- 
ville is a wealthy settler from the Yasse District.” 

“ From the Vasse ?” repeated Sheridan, quite sur- 
prised ; “ I thought I knew every man, rich and poor, 
bond and free, in that district. I have lived there 
many years.” 

Sheridan saw that his importance was lessened to 
the Board, but, strange to say, increased to the Chief 
Director, by his confession of ignorance of Mr. Wy- 
ville. However, Sir Joshua continued to speak. 

7 


98 


MOONDYNE. 


“Mr. Wyville wants to introduce the sentimental 
idea into our penal system, — an absurdity that has 
never been attempted. There is only one way to blend 
punishment with reform, sir, — by rigid rules, constant 
work, low diet, impersonal treatment, — and all this 
kept up with unflagging regularity for all the years of 
a prisoner’s sentence.” 

“ With educational and religious influences added, of 
course,” suggested Mr. Sheridan. 

“ No, sir, not of course,” said Sir Joshua, in a tone 
of severe correction ; “ a chapter of the Bible read by 
a warder every morning, in a regular way, may do 
some good ; but these influences have been overrated — 
they are of the sentimental school. The quality that 
is absent in the criminal class is order , sir, order; 
and this can best be supplied by persistent and im- 
personal regularity of work, meals, exercise, and sleep.” 

“You subject all prisoners to the same course of 
treatment? ” asked Sheridan. 

“ Precisely,” answered Sir Joshua. “ Our system is 
the measure of normality, sir. We make the entire 
criminal or abnormal clasr pass through the same pro- 
cess of elevation, and try to reach one standard.” 

Mr. Slieridan would have asked what the standard 
was, and how many had reached it, and what had be- 
come of those who had failed to reach it, who had sunk 
under the Draconian yoke ; but he thought it prudent 
to keep the questions back. 

“ Suppose a youth commit a first offence,” he said, 
“ or a man hitherto respectable and industrious commit 
a crime in a moment of passion, — will you treat him 
as if he were a professional criminal ? ” 

“ Precisely,” repeated the eminent reformer ; “ our 
system regards criminality as a mass, and ignores its 
grades. This is our leading idea, sir — uniformity and 
justice. The criminal body is diseased — our system 
is the cure, sir ; physician and cure in one.” 


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99 


Accustomed to say the word he meant, Will Sheri- 
dan could hardly restrain an indignant comment. 
“ Confound the man,” he thought, “ he would take a 
hundred men, with as many diseases, and treat them 
all for the cholera” He concluded that Sir Joshua 
would have earned distinction as a torturer as well as 
a reformer, but he did not say so. As soon as possible 
he ended the conversation, and withdrew from the 
presence of the Directors of Prisons. 

“ Lord help the convicts ! ” he thought, on his way 
to the hotel. “ Ho wonder they are eager to be sent to 
the Penal Colony.” 


IX. 

MR. WYVILLE. 

At the hotel, Sheridan found a note from Lord 
Somers, requesting him, if disengaged, to call upon 
him that afternoon. Half an hour later, he and the 
Colonial Secretary were riding together toward the 
West End. 

“By the way, Mr. Sheridan,” said Lord Somers, 
“ there is a gentleman in London I want you to meet, 
who knows a great deal about the Australian Colonies, 
and especially about the West. He is our chief ad- 
viser on the proposed reform of the Penal System.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Sheridan, interested at once. “ This 
is the second time to-day, I surmise, that I have heard 
of him. Is his name Wyville ? ” 

“ Yes ; do you know him ? ” 

“ No,” answered Sheridan- 11 1 have never heard of 
him. Sir Joshua Hobb does not like his reformatory 
ideas — which inclines me to think Mr. Wyville must 
be a superior man.” 


100 


MOONDYNE. 


Lord Somers laughed. “ Sir Joshua Hobb is, indeed, 
a strong counterblast,” he said ; “ by nature, two such 
men are compelled to antagonize each other.” 

“ You admire Mr. Wy ville, my Lord ? ” asked Sher- 
idan. 

“ Thoroughly,” answered Lord Somers. “ He is a 
most remarkable man — a man of exalted principles 
and extraordinary power. His information is astonish- 
ing — and what he speaks about he knows absolutely. 
I fancy he has lived a long time in the colonies, for he 
is enormously wealthy.” 

“ Is he an old man ? ” asked Sheridan. 

“ Ho, I don’t think he can be forty — certainly not 
more — but a person of so much force, and with a man- 
ner so impressive, that really one forgets to think of his 
age. He is altogether a notable man — and I may say, 
in confidence, that even the Prime Minister has more 
than once consulted him with advantage on Colonial 
affairs.” 

“ You interest me exceedingly,” said Sheridan. 
“ Such men are not common in Australia.” 

“We are beginning to think otherwise,” laughed the 
Secretary. “And yet you Australians seem to learn 
everything without newspapers. I remember, when 
Mr. Wy ville first appeared here, some years ago, he 
might have dropped from the moon, so oblivious was 
he of the doings of the European world.” 

“ He must have lived in the bush,” said Sheridan, 
smiling. 

“ Why, he had never heard of the Crimean War,” 
said the Secretary ; “ and when I mentioned the Indian 
Mutiny to him, one day, he gravely stared, and asked, 
‘ What mutiny ? ’ Are you so utterly removed from 
civiliz — from news, in your bush ? ” 

“Well, Mr. Wy ville must certainly have had the 
minimum of society,” responded Will ; “ we usually get 
a report, however vague, of what your civilization is 
doing.” 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 


101 


“ Shall we call on Mr. Wyville ? ” asked Lord Somers ; 
“ he lives in Grosvenor Street.” 

“ I shall be delighted to meet him/’ said Sheridan ; 
and a few minutes afterward they stopped before a 
large and handsome mansion. 

Mr. Wyville was at home. A colored servant showed 
the gentlemen into a rich reception-room, in which 
Sheridan’s quick eye noted many Australian features 
of decoration. 

The colored servant seemed a negro of the common 
African type to the superficial eye of Lord Somers. 
But there was an air of freedom about him, an upright- 
ness in the setting of his head on the neck and shoul- 
ders, the effect being heightened by blue-black hair, that 
stood straight out like a handsome and very soft brush, 
which at once attracted the attention of Sheridan. 

“ Australian ! ” he thought, half-aloud ; “ is it pos- 
sible that a bush man may be trained in this way ? ” 

lie smiled at the absurdity of the thought ; but was 
struck once more by the man’s air as he turned to the 
door. 

“ Mir-ga-na nago mial Vasse ! ” said Sheridan in a 
low voice — (“ Mir-ga-na” a common name among 
bushmen, “ you have known,” or “ you belong to the 
Vasse.”) 

The black man turned as if a shot had struck him, 
and stared at the gentlemen, not knowing which had 
spoken. 

“ Nago mial wan-gur Vasse, ? ” repeated Mr. Sheri- 
dan. 

“ Tdal-lung nago Vasse ! Guab-ha-leetch ! ” ans- 
wered the man, the look of amazement slowly chang- 
ing to one of deep pleasure and curiosity. (“My 
mouth knows the Vasse ! That is good ! ” ) 

“By Jove!” said a pleasant voice from a window 
recess in the room ; “ please ask what was the prince’s 
name in his own country. * 


102 


MOONDYNE. 


There came from the recess a handsome, well-set 
man, who greeted Lord Somers in a familiar manner. 

“0, my dear Hamerton,” said the Secretary, “I 
have great pleasure in making you acquainted with 
another Australian gentleman, whom you will find as 
interesting as Mr. Wyville.” 

The gentleman bowed. Sheridan liked him from 
the first look. An aristocrat, stamped ; with a broad 
open forehead, clear, honest eyes, a firm mouth and 
jaw, and a manner above trifles, and careless of form. 

“ Mr. Hamerton is a priest of the new order,” said 
Lord Somers to Sheridan. in mock-earnest; “he is a 
journalist and book-maker — hungry for novelty as an 
epicure.” 

The black man had remained in the room, statu- 
esque, his eyes fixed on Sheridan’s face. 

“Mr. Sheridan, will you please ask his royal 
name ? ” said Hamerton. 

“ Wan-gon-di ? ” said Sheridan to the man. 

“ Ngarra-jil,” he answered. 

Mr. Sheridan motioned him to go. 

“ He is Ngarra-jil, a native of the Yasse country,” 
said Sheridan. 

“ Is this really a language, with even an approach to 
regular formation, or the local gibberish of incoherent 
tribes ? ” asked Lord Somers. 

“ I have not studied its form,” answered Mr. Sheri- 
dan, “ but it certainly is not a mere local dialect. The 
same things have the same names all over the conti- 
nent, with only a slight difference between the Swan 
Liver and Sydney — two thousand miles apart.” 

“ How did you guess this man’s particular nativity ? ” 
asked Hamerton. 

- “ I have lived at the Yasse many years,” said Sheri- 

dan, “and have grown familiar with the people. I 
believe the Yasse natives are the most superior tribe 
in Australia.” 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 


103 


“ You are right, sir,” said a deep voice behind them ; 
“the Yasse people are the parent stock of Australia.” 

“ Mr. Wyville ! ” said both Lord Somers and Hamer- 
ton, with sudden gravity and respect. 

Sheridan turned, and met the eyes of him who had 
spoken — deep, searching eyes that held him strongly 
for a moment, then passed quietly to another direction. 

Never, among all the men he had known, had Sheri- 
dan seen such a man as this. The head, with all its 
features, the eye, the voice, the whole body, were cast 
in one mould of superb massiveness and . beauty. 
There was no point of difference or weakness. Among 
a million, this man would not have merely claimed 
superiority, but would have unconsciously walked 
through the opening crowd to the front place, and 
have taken it without a word. Before him now stood 
three men least likely of any in London to be easily 
impressed — a young and brilliant statesman, a cynical 
and able novelist, and a bold and independent worker ; 
and each of these felt the same strange presence of a 
power and a principle to be respected. 

Nature, circumstances, and cultivation had evi- 
dently united to create in this man a majestic indi- 
viduality. He did not pose or pretend, but spoke 
straight the thing he meant to say ; yet every move- 
ment and word suggested a reserve of strength that 
had almost a mysterious calmness and beauty. 

He was dressed in such a way that one would say 
he never could be dressed otherwise. Dress was for- 
gotten in the man. But he wore a short walking or 
shooting coat, of strong dark cloth. The strength and 
roughness of the cloth were seen, rather than the style, 
for it seemed appropriate that so strangely powerful a 
figure should be strongly clad. 

His face was bronzed to the darkness of a Greek’s. 
His voice, as he spoke on entering the room, came 
easily from his lips r yet with a deep resonance that 


104 


MOONDYNE. 


was pleasant to hear, suggesting a possible tenderness 
or terror that would shake the soul. It was a voice in 
absolutely perfect accord with the striking face and 
physique. 

“ Mr. Sheridan,” he said, holding out his hand, 
which the other took with a feeling of rare pleasure, 
“ we should not need a formal introduction. We are 
both from a far country, where formality is unknown ; 
and I have been quite intimate with your plans and 
progress there for several years.” 

Sheridan could hardly stammer a reply, he was so 
profoundly astonished. He could only recall the wild 
nature of West Australian life, and wonder how it 
could have contained or developed this important 
man. 

“ You have studied with some effect,” continued 
Mr. Wyville with a smile, “ to have learned the lan- 
guage and discovered the superiority of the Yasse 
tribe.” 

“ My life for nine years has been passed among 
them,” answered Sheridan ; “ but the possibility of 
training them to European manners I should not have 
thought possible.” 

“ Oh, civilization is only skin deep,” said Mr. 
Wyville, pleasantly. “ The gamut of social law is 
not very extensive ; and a little skill, practised with 
kindness and attention, will soon enable one to run 
over all the keys.” 

“You really think it possible, Mr. Wyville,” asked 
Lord Somers, “ to transform the average savage into an 
obedient footman ? ” 

“ Yes, my Lord, I knowdt is possible — and I have 
seen stranger things accomplished with little difficulty. 
Eefinement and gracious intercourse, even according to 
civilized rule, are quite in keeping with the natural 
character. We assume that to be savage which is con- 
trary to our habit ; but this is no proof of inferiority. 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 


105 


Degraded civilization is brutal, indeed ; but the natural 
or savage life is not.” 

“ Then,” said Mr. Hamerton, “ why can’t we put all 
our savages in Australia through your civilizing pro- 
cess, and do away with savagery at one stroke ? ” 

“ Why not begin at home ? ” quietly asked Mr. 
Wyville. 

“Ah, just so; I hadn’t thought of that!” and 
Hamerton lapsed into listening, with a shrug. 

“ Have you actually civilized your savage servant ? ” 
asked Lord Somers. 

“I don’t think I quite know your meaning, my 
Lord,” answered Mr. Wyville. “All my people are 
Australians, taken from the bush. I am well served, 
and honestly ; and I have no gossips in my household, 
for no one in Europe can speak to my people — except 
Mr. Sheridan here,” he added smiling. 

“But how have you changed the nature of the 
bushmen ? ” asked Lord Somers, very much interested. 

“ I haven’t changed it ; my men are bushmen stilL 
I have attempted no change whatever, — and that is 
the secret of my success. It is true, I have asked 
Ngarra-jil and the others to wrap some warm cloth 
round their bodies while we live in this cold climate ; 
to open the door when the bell rings ; and to drive 
slowly and carefully in the streets. This was learned 
easily in a week or two. The bushmen are natural 
horsemen, trained to riding through close woods. We 
have no collisions with other carriages, I assure you. 
Then, again, my men, being savages, never lie and 
never steal.” 

“ But is not this actual civilization ? ” asked Lord 
Somers. 

“ I really don’t know,” said Mr. Wyville. 

“ Ha, ha ! ” chuckled Hamerton. “ I really think 
it is ! ” 

“ Yes, you may laugh, Hamerton ; but this is very 


106 


MOONDYNE. 


interesting,” said Lord Somers. “ Have your men re 
tained any of their savage ways, Mr. Wyville ?” 

“I think they have kept all their natural customs, 
which people in England call savage ways. They eat 
and sleep in their own fashion — I do not see any 
reason for imposing my way upon them, if they prefer 
theirs. Mine is in itself no better, except as it pleases 
me. They even keep their familiar implements, if 
they please.” 

“ What, for instance ? ” asked Lord Somers. 

Mr. Wyville touched a bell. Ngarra-jil appeared at 
the door. 

“ Yang a dan-na wommera ,” said Mr. Wyville. 

The Australian disappeared, and in a few moments 
returned to the door, holding three or four long and 
slender spears in one hand, and the wommera or throw- 
ing stick in the other. 

Lord Somers and Mr. Hamerton examined the 
weapons with great interest, vainly trying to draw a 
word from the observant Australian ; while Mr. Wyville 
took Mr. Sheridan aside, and conversed with him for 
several minutes. 

On taking their leave, Mr. Wyville gave Sheridan a 
cordial invitation to come and see him soon, as he had 
much to say to him. 

“ You will find me at home almost always,” he said. 

"And if Mr. Wyville is absent, you will certainly 
find Mr. Hamerton,” said Lord Somers, jestingly. 

Before they parted, Lord Somers informed Mr. Sheri- 
dan that Hamerton was a wealthy gentleman, who 
had refused to adopt his hereditary title, and who had 
also decided to earn his own livelihood, making a 
yearly division of the profits of his estate among his 
farmers and tenants. This had earned him quite 
another kind of title amongst the upper classes ; but he 
had gone on working in his own way, and had already 
won for himself an honorable name as an author. 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 


107 


“ Hamerton is a Republican now/’ said Lord Somers, 
after a pause ; “ he was a Socialist in the University.” 

Mr. Sheridan remarked that he seemed quite to 
agree with Mr. Wyville’s opinions. 

“ Yes,” the Secretary said, “ he has been much at- 
tracted to this remarkable man — more so than to any 
one he has ever known.” Lord Somers also mentioned 
that the Government was about to introduce a sweep- 
ing reform of the entire Penal System, at home and 
abroad, and that the assistance of Mr. Wyville had 
been deemed of the utmost importance. 

“ He has already reformed our system at the Anda- 
man Islands, the Penal Colony for India,” said the 
Secretary ; “ but the Australian colonies offer a pro- 
found problem. If possible, we are bound, he says, to 
use the convicts not merely as slaves, preparing the 
way for civilized life, but to transform them gradually 
into a healthy basis of population.” 

“ It certainly is a wide field, and a grand undertak- 
ing,” responded Sheridan, “ and it is terribly needed. 
But Mr. Wyville is an uncommon mind. I trust his 
views will be largely heeded by the Government.” 

“ He has the matter in his own hands,” said the 
Secretary, confidentially and earnestly; “the Prime 
Minister has asked him to draft the entire bill.” 


X. 

THE UPAS-TREE. 

In a few days, as soon as he could do so without 
apparent haste, Will Sheridan visited Millbank again, 
and was escorted by a warder to the governor’s office, 
where he was graciously received by that dignitary. 
Very soon, Sheridan adroitly turned the conversation 


108 


MOONDYNE. 


on the transport service, and the class of prisoners to 
be transported in the next ship. The governor, who 
was a portly old army major, was willing enough to 
talk oji this subject. 

“ The. Government has no special ships for trans- 
port,” said the governor ; “ we charter a large merchant 
vessel, and fit her up for the voyage. The Houguemont , 
which will sail in April, is now lying at Portland, un- 
der preparation.” 

“ The convicts to be transported you select from 
those who are best conducted, do you not ? ” asked 
Sheridan. 

“ No,” said the governor, “ only the women. These 
are the healthiest and best among their class ; because 
they are soon released in Australia, and get married to 
liberated men, or go to service in settlers’ houses. But 
the men who go to Australia are the opposite — they 
are the worst criminals in Great Britain. They are 
first selected for their sentence ; men imprisoned for 
life, or for twenty years, are sure to go. Next we take 
them for re-conviction ; we want to send away as many 
professional criminals as possible. Then we make up 
the number with strong young fellows, who have never 
been in prison before, but who are able to do a good 
deal of hard work.” 

“ I presume the Australian authorities soon give this 
last class their liberty, and encourage them to become 
settlers ? ” said Sheridan inquiringly. 

“ Quite the contrary,” answered the governor, very 
gravely, as if he, subordinate though he was, could see 
the wrong of the system! “ These men, who should 
be punished lightest, have the heaviest burden in Aus- 
tralia. The professionals escape hard tasks, by know- 
ing how ; but these poor fellows, being strong, and 
ignorant of the rules, are pushed into the quarry gangs. 
The chain-gang of Fremantle, of which you have 
heard, is filled with these men. Very rarely, indeed. 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 


109 


does a really dangerous criminal get heavy punishment 
in prison. As a rule, the worst characters outside are 
the best in prison.” 

“ It is a bad system,” said Sheridan. “ Does Mr. 
Wyville’s plan propose a reform ?” 

“ Mr. Wyville,” said the old governor, walking toward 
the door, which he closed, then, sinking his voice almost 
to a whisper, “ Mr. Wyville is a man and a Christian, 
sir. I have heard him say that the true penal law 
should be filled with the spirit of Christ, and that our 
present code had none of it. He is going to change the 
whole machinery. He knows more about humanity 
and reform than a regiment of your K. C. B.’s.” 

The bluff old major mopped his face with his large 
handkerchief. He was excited. 

“ Pardon me, Mr. Sheridan,” he continued, “ I speak 
too quickly against my superiors, perhaps. But I 
don’t do it often ; and I think you Australian gentle- 
men may have a good deal of influence in making the 
new law.” 

“ You know Mr. Wyville intimately, Major ? ” asked 
Sheridan. 

“ I have known him for five years, sir,” answered 
the governor ; “ since first he visited this prison with 
an order from Lord Palmerston. He has done more 
good to convicts in that time than all the men in 
Britain — I’m free to say that,” added the major em- 
phatically. “ Four years ago, I called his attention to 
an extraordinary case among our female convicts — 
the very prisoner you saw the other day. She had 
never prayed, and had hardly spoken a word for five 
years after she came here. Mr. Wyville took an in- 
terest in her, and he has changed the whole manner of 
her life.” 

“ By what means ? ” asked Sheridan, profoundly in- 
terested. 

* Means ? ” repeated the governor, again resorting to 


110 


MOONDYNE. 


his sail- like handkerchief ; “ it was done in his own 
way — unlike any other man’s way. That poor girl’s 
life was saved from insanity and despair, by 'what do 
you think ? by a poor little flower — a little common 
flower he went and pulled in my garden, down there.” 

Sheridan was about to hear the story of this strange 
event, when a low knock came to the door. The gov- 
ernor opened it, and there entered and stood near the 
threshold two ladies, dressed in black, with snowy 
head-dresses. They w T ere Sisters of Mercy, who at- 
tended the female school and hospital. They had 
come for their ward keys, without which it was im- 
possible to pass through the pentagons, each ward or 
passage ending with a door. 

The governor treated the ladies with respect and 
courtesy. He handed them their keys with a knightly 
bow, and, as they retired, he bowed again, and w 7 aited 
until they had reached the end of the passage before 
he closed the door. Sheridan, who w r as a Catholic, was 
gratified and much surprised at seeing all this. 

The governor turned to him with a radiant face. 
“ God bless them ! ” he said, earnestly ; “ they may be- 
lieve in the Pope of Pome, but it doesn’t prevent them 
spending their lives for the love of God.” 

“ Are they constant attendants in the prison ? ” asked 
Sheridan. 

“ Yes ; they might as well be penal convicts, for all 
they see of the outside w T orld. It was through these 
ladies, and the little flower I spoke of, that Mr. Wy ville 
did so much for the poor girl. I ’ll tell you that story 
some day, Mr. Sheridan, if you care to hear it. Just 
now I have to make my rounds of inspection. Will 
you join me ? ” 

“With pleasure,” said Sheridan; and they passed 
into one of the male pentagons. 

It was a monotonous and unpleasant routine, this 
visiting of the wards. Will Sheridan was glad when 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 


Ill 


they entered the female pentagon, after half an hour’s 
rapid walking. When at last they came to the . short 
ward in which Alice was confined, Sheridan’s heart 
was beating rapidly. 

The door of Number Four was open, and one of the 
nuns was standing in the cell beside Alice, who sat 
with her work in her lap. Will Sheridan heard the low 
sound of her voice, as she spoke to her visitor, and it 
thrilled him like a strain of exquisite music. In after 
years, he never forgot the subtile pleasure and pain he 
experienced at the sound of her soft voice in that brief 
sentence. 

The governor stood at the doorway, and greeted 
Sister Cecilia respectfully, then passed on. Will Sher- 
idan had only for one instant rested his eyes on Alice ; 
hut he went away happy, his heart filled with grati- 
tude. The old governor wondered at the earnest 
warmth of his manner as he thanked him and took 
his leave. 

When Will Sheridan emerged from Millbank Prison, 
he seemed impatient, and yet pleased. He hailed a 
cab, and drove • straight to Mr. Wyville’s. He was 
drawn there by a deep, pleasurable feeling of mingled 
respect, gratitude, and expectation. He felt unac- 
countably light-hearted and joyous. He had no actual 
thoughts, but only happy perceptions. The world was 
changed. He did not know in what the change con- 
sisted ; but he certainly was a different man from the 
unhappy stranger who had wandered round Millbank 
a few weeks before. 

He sprang from the cab in Grosvenor Square, think- 
ing he would quiet his excitement by walking the 
remainder of the way. As he turned into Grosvenor 
Street, his eye was attracted by a low and elegant 
brougham, driven by a colored coachman, who wore 
a peculiar oriental dress. This driver had caught 
Sheridan’s eye at first, and he was rather surprised 


112 


MOONDYNE. 


when he recognized Mr. Wyville’s Australian servant, 
Ngarra-jil. 

In the carriage sat two young girls of extraordinary 
beauty and similarity of face and age. They were 
dark-skinned rather than “ colored,” with intensely- 
black hair and flashing eyes. Their faces were of a 
splendid, rich bronze, warmer than the Moorish brown 
of Spain, and darker than the red bronze of Syria. 
They were wrapped in soft furs, their faces only visi- 
ble. They might have been twins ; they were cer- 
tainly sisters. They were talking and smiling as they 
spoke, as the brougham slowly passed Sheridan, and 
drew up at Mr. Wyville’s door. 

The ladies sprang lightly to the sidewalk, having 
thrown off their heavier wraps in the carriage. Their 
dress beneath was still of rich furs, of two or three 
colors. They walked lightly to the door, which was 
held open by a black servant, and entered the house. 

The incident surprised Sheridan ; but he was little 
given to curiosity. “ Those ladies,” he thought, “ are 
certainly Australian natives, and yet it seems absurd 
to believe it. But then, it is no stranger than every- 
thing connected with this remarkable man.” 

At Mr. Wyville’s he found Lord Somers, who had 
brought a copy of Sir Joshua Hobb’s new Prison Bill, 
and Mr. Hamerton. The greeting of all was pleasant, 
but Sheridan was specially pleased with the almost 
silent cordiality of Mr. Wyville. 

They had been conversing on criminal matters ; and 
the conversation was renewed. 

“ Mr. Wyvilje,” said the Secretary, “I wish to ask you 
a question I have put to many philanthropists, with 
varying results : Have you ever sought, or rather have 
you ever found the roots of the criminal upas-tree ? ” 

Mr. Wyville had stood facing the window ; he turned 
toward the Secretary, and his impressive face was in 
shade, as he answered, in a low tone, — 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 


113 


“ Yes, my Lord, I have sought for it, and I have 
found it.” 

“ Then why not announce the discovery ? Why not 
lay the axe to the root of this tree of evil, and let the 
world, or at least England, be freed from the criminal 
incubus ? ” 

The question was earnestly put, and Hamerton and 
Sheridan, with deep interest, watched the face of Mr. 
Wyville till the answer came. 

“ Because, my Lord, the tree of evil is a banian — its 
roots drop from above ; its blood is not drawn directly 
from the soil, but pours from the heart of the main 
stem, which you think healthy. Its diseased branches 
ramify through the admirable limbs, and cannot be 
separated with a knife.” 

“ You are allegorical, Mr. Wyville, but I presume 
that you mean — ” 

“ That the criminal principle is rooted in the heart 
of society, underlies the throne — or let me say, that 
the throne cannot escape injury if the axe be laid to 
its base,” said Mr. Wyville, speaking slowly. 

The nobleman glanced nervously at Hamerton, who 
was smiling broadly, as if intensely pleased. 

The Secretary could not give up the point just then, 
having reached dangerous ground. And as Wy- 
ville remained silent, he was forced to continue. 

“My dear Mr. Wyville,” he said jocosely, “you 
speak to-day almost like a French Bepublican, and I 
fear Mr. Sheridan will conceive a violent prejudice 
against you. You mean, of course, that the ‘law dare 
not attempt to suddenly suppress all crime for fear of 
exciting revolution ? ” 

“Ho, my Lord, that was not my meaning,” said Mr. 
Wyville. 

“ Well, then, I give it up,” said the pleasant noble- 
man, laughing, and turning to Hamerton to change the 
conversation. 


8 


114 


MOONDYNE. 


“ Don’t you think, Mr. Hamerton, that with all the 
public and private money spent in charity and re- 
ligious work in England, the existence of a great 
criminal class is a vastly difficult problem, and a 
monstrous popular ingratitude ? ” 

“ I agree as to the problem,” answered Hamerton, 
becoming grave ; “ but I do not quite see the ingrati- 
tude. But may I ask Mr. Wy ville to read us the 
riddle of his allegory, or to continue it further ? ” 

“ Pray do, sir,” said the Secretary, seeing no 
escape. 

“ My Lord,” said Mr. Wy ville, slightly smiling, but 
yet very earnest in look, “ my views are personal, as 
my researches have been. I have drawn no political 
dissatisfaction from foreign schools. I have merely 
sought among the poor and the tempted for the danger- 
ous and the lawless; and I have found them, and 
lived among them, and have investigated the causes 
of their state. I have followed the main root of the 
criminal plant till I found it disappear beneath the 
throne ; and its lateral issues run through and under the 
titled and hereditary circles that ring the monarch.” 

Mr. Hamerton opened his eyes and locked his hands 
tightly, as he looked at the speaker ; Lord Somers 
seemed puzzled, and rather dismayed ; while Sheridan 
enjoyed the conversation keenly. 

“ Do the roots spring from the throne and the aris- 
tocracy, or enter their crevices from the outside ? ” 
asked Hamerton. 

“ They are born of aristocracy,” answered Wy ville, 
impressively. “ They spring from the rotting luxuries 
that fall from the tables of kings and earls and heredi- 
tary gentry. They creep from the palaces, where 
custom and care are too strong for them, and they 
crawl to the cabins and seize on the hearts of the poor 
for their prey. The seed of crime is in the flower 
of aristocracy.” 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 


115 


“You speak in paradoxes now, sir,” said Lord 
Somers, interested in spite of himself. 

“ I take aristocracy as the efflorescence of the social 
and political evil,” said Mr. Wyville, now deeply 
moved by his theme. “ It presupposes the morality of 
hereditary classes. Men would not, in a justly ordered 
state, be born either to luxury, poverty, disease, or 
crime. I do not know where or how mankind began 
to do the social sum wrong ; but I- do know, for I see, 
that the result is appalling, — that millions have evil 
for a heritage, as truly as you, my Lord, have your 
entailed estate.” 

“ But how can this be changed or bettered, my dear 
Mr. Wyville, except by the spread of charity and 
religion among the wealthy ?” asked the peer. 

“ Ah, pardon me ; I consider these things from an- 
other standpoint. Charity among the rich simply 
means the propriety of the poor being miserable, — 
that poverty is unfortunate, but not wrong. But God 
never meant to send the majority of mankind into 
existence to exercise the charity and religion of the 
minority. He sent them all into the world to be 
happy and virtuous, if not equal ; and men have gen- 
erated their evils by their own blind and selfish rules.” 

“ Surely, Mr. Wyville,” interrupted Hamerton, “ you 
do not believe in the American absurdity that men are 
born equal ? ” 

“ I do not think the Americans mean that in your 
sense,” answered Wyville. “Ido believe that every 
generation of men should have a fair start, and let the 
best lives win.” 

“ But it never can be done,” said Lord Somers. 

“ It has never been tried, I think, except by fanatics 
or philanthropic charity-mongers, who have done more 
harm than good. The good shall not come from the 
stooping of the rich, but from the raising of the poor ; 
and the poor had better remain poor for another 


116 


MOONDYNE. 


cycle than be raised by charity, and so pauperized and 
degraded.” 

“ How would you begin the improvement, had you 
absolute power ? ” asked Mr. Hamerton. 

Mr. Wyville checked himself with an effort, as he 
was about to speak. 

“You have led me to utter latent thoughts rather 
than opinions,” he said, smiling, and looking toward 
the nobleman. “ I fear my upas roots have led me 
out of bounds.” 

Mr. Hamerton seemed annoyed at the check, and 
strode across the room impatiently. 

“ Confound it, Somers,” he cried, “ throw off your 
official airs, and take an interest in principles, as you 
used to. Mr. Wyville, I beg of you to continue ; 
you should not only talk freely here, but I wish to 
Heaven you could preach these things in Westminster 
Abbey.” 

“ Let me recall the question of this excitable per- 
son, Mr. Wyville,” said his lordship ; “ he asked how 
you would begin the reform of society, had you abso- 
lute power ? ” 

“ By burning the law-books.” 

“ Splendid !” cried Hamerton. 

“And then ? ” asked Lord Somers. 

“ By burning the title-deeds.” 

“ Magnificent ! ” ejaculated Hamerton. 

“ Could society exist without law ? ” asked the 
nobleman. 

“ Not just yet ; but it could have a better existence 
with better laws. At present the laws of civilization, 
especially of England, are based on and framed by 
property — a depraved and unjust foundation. Human 
law should be founded on God’s law and human right, 
and not on the narrow interests of land and gold.” 

“ What do you propose to effect by such law ? ” 
asked Lord Somers. 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 117 

“ To raise all men above insecurity, which is the 
hot-bed of lawlessness,” answered Mr. Wyville. 

“ But by what means can law make poor men rich ? ” 
asked the nobleman. 

“ By allowing no one to hold unproductive land 
while a single man' is hungry. By encouraging small 
farmers, till every acre of land in England is teeming 
with food. ,v 

“ But men do not live by bread alone. Englishmen 
cannot all be farmers. What then ? ” 

“By developing a system of technical education, 
that would enable the town and city populations to 
manufacture to advantage the produce of the fields 
and mines.” 

“ Admirable ! ” cried Hamerton. 

“ But this is revolution,” said the nobleman. 

“ I know not what it may be called, my Lord,” re- 
sponded Mr. Wyville impressively ; “ but it is lawful 
and right. This can all be achieved by legal reform — 
ay, even under present laws.” 

“ Let me not misunderstand you, Mr. Wyville,” said 
the nobleman seriously. “Would you propose that 
the estates of wealthy men be wrested from them by 
law ? ” 

“ Not without compensation, my Lord ; and not at 
all unless they refused to cultivate the soil or to pay 
the heavy tax necessary to insure cultivation. I would 
do no wrong to make a right. No inherited nor pur- 
chased land should be taken for the benefit of the 
people without giving a fair recompense to the 
aristocrat.” 

“ Well, and having done all this, where should we 
be ? ” asked Lord Somers. 

“ At the starting-point,” answered Mr. Wyville, with 
a sad smile ; “ only at the starting-point. At present, 
the level of society is insecurity, poverty, misery, 
from which spring fear, ignorance, disease, and crime. 


ns 


MOONDYNE. 


Under a better system, the lowest point would be at least 
sufficiency, enough for all the human beings in the 
country ; and this, in time, would eradicate much of 
the evil, perhaps most of it.” 

“ Do you think, if there were enough for all, there 
would not still be some who would steal ? ” asked 
Hamerton. 

“For a time there would be,” answered Wyville, 
gravely ; “ perhaps for a thousand years or more 
we should have remnants of common crime. Men 
have been thousands of years learning to steal, and 
cringe, and lie; at least give them one thousand to 
unlearn.” 

“ But if it take so long,” said Lord Somers, laugh- 
ing, “ we may as well go on as we are.” 

“ Not so, my Lord,” answered Wyville, and as he 
spoke, his fa,ce was lighted with an exaltation of spirit 
that made it marvellously beautiful and powerful ; 
“ no man who sees the truth, however distant, can 
conscientiously go on as if it were not there. Thou- 
sands of years are vast periods ; but the love of human 
liberty and happiness shall reach out and cling to the 
eternal. Let every man who believes, faithfully do 
his share, sow the seed that he has received, and in 
God’s time the glorious harvest will come of a pure 
and truthful people, whose aristocrats shall be ele- 
vated by intelligence and virtue, and the love of 
humanity, and not by accident of birth and superiority 
in vice and pride.” 

The three who heard were deeply moved by the 
earnestness of the speaker, whose whole being seemed 
filled with the splendid prophecy. Lord Somers was 
the first to speak, returning to the subject of the 
Penal Beform Bill. 

“And yet, Mr. Wyville, with all your enthusiasm for 
social reform, you have given us a bill which is filled 
with practical attention to existing institutions.” 


THE SANDALWOOD TRADE. 


119 


"Ah, it is too soon to begin; and the beginning 
will not be at that point,” said Mr. Wyville. “ The 
real evil is outside the prison, and at present our 
legal morality calls it good. Until society is changed 
by the new common sense of abstract justice, we 
must temporize with our criminal codes.” 

There was a pause ; no one seemed willing to break 
the floating possibilities of the future. 

“ You are going to Australia with the next convict 
ship, are you not ? ” Mr. Hamerton at length asked 
Mr. Wyville. 

“Yes; I wish to see the machinery of the new sys- 
tem put in motion. Besides, I have personal matters 
to attend to in the Colony.” 

Sheridan had started so sudden at the question, 
that now all three turned their eyes on him. 

“ I have thought,” he said, looking at Lord Somers, 
“ that I also should like to return to Australia on that 
ship.” 

“ Would you not prefer to go in my yacht, Mr. 
Sheridan ? ” asked Mr. Wyville. “ She will sail for 
Australia about the same time, and you shall com- 
mand her for the voyage.” 

“ I should prefer the ship,” said Sheridan. Then, 
thinking he had rudely refused, he added : "I desire 
very keenly to have this experience.” 

"■You shall have your wish, sir,” said the Secretary 
* and I envy you the companionship of your voyage.” 


BOOK THIRD. 


‘ALICE WALMSLEY. 


I. 

MISERERE ! 

0, Spirits of Unrest and Pain, that grieve for the 
sorrow dealt out to weak humanity, sweep from my 
heart the dull veil of individuality, and let my being 
vibrate with the profound pulsation of those who 
mourn in the depths. Spirits of Sorrow and Sympathy, 
twin sisters of the twilight, touch the trembling chords 
that sound the symphony of wrong, and desolation, and 
despair. 

Almighty God, in Thy wisdom, and surely also in 
Thy love, Thou layest Thine awful finger on a poor hu- 
man soul, and it is withered in Thy sight even to agony 
and death. Thy ways, far-seeing, our eyes may not 
discover. In those supreme moments of trial, when 
that which we see is black as night, teach us to trust 
in Thy guidance, give us light to deny the fearful 
temptation of Chance, and faith to believe that all 
who labor and are heavy laden may bring their heavy 
•burden trustingly to Thee ! 

With a prayer, we enter the cell of Alice Walmsley — 
a cell where no prayer had been uttered, woful to say, 
for the first five years of her life therein. We look 
upon the calm white face and the downcast eyes, that 


ALICE WALMSLEY. 


121 


during the hopeless period had never been raised to 
Heaven — except once, and then only in defiance and 
imprecation. 

God’s hand had caught her up from the happy plain, 
to fling her into the darkest furrows of affliction ; and 
from these depths the stricken soul had upbraided the 
judge and rebelled against the sentence. 

Alice Walmsley had been horn with a heart all kind- 
ness and sympathy. From her very infancy she had 
loved intensely the kindly, the unselfish, and the beau- 
tiful. She had lived through her girlhood as happy, 
healthy, and pure as the primroses beneath her mother’s 
hedgerows. She had approached womanhood as a sil- 
ver stream ripples to the sea, yearning for its greatness 
and its troubles and its joys — hurrying from the calm 
delights of the meadow banks to the mighty main of 
strength, and saltness, and sweetness. 

The moment of communion was reached at last, 
when her girlish life plunged with delicious expecta- 
tion into the deep — and in one hideous instant she 
knew that for ever she had parted from the pure and 
beautiful, and was buried in an ocean of corruption and 
disappointment, rolled over by waves of unimaginable 
and inevitable suffering and wrong. 

From the first deep plunge, stifled, agonized, appalled, 
she rose to the surface, only to behold the land* reced- 
ing from her view — the sweet fields of her innocent 
and joyous girlhood fading in the distance. 

She raised her eyes, and saw the heaven calm and 
beautiful above her, sprinkled with gem-like stars — 
and she cried, she screamed to God for help in her help- 
lessness. The answer did not come — the lips of God 
were dumb — it seemed as if He did not heed nor see the 
ruin of one puny human life. The sky was as beauti- 
ful and serene as before, and the stars were as bright. 

Then, from the crest of the wave, as she felt herself 
slipping hack into the dreadful depths again, and for 


122 


MOONDYNE. 


ever, she raised her face to heaven, and shrieked re- 
proach and disbelief and execration ! 

On the very day of her marriage, before the solemn 
words of the ceremony had left her memory, she had 
looked for one dread moment beneath the mask of him 
who had won her love and trust — some old lettefs of 
her husband relating to Will Sheridan had fallen into 
her hands — and she shrank within herself, affrighted 
at the knowledge of deceit and habitual falsehood that 
the glimpse had brought her. It was her first grief and 
secret, and she hid it in her soul for months before 
she dared look upon it again. 

But a single grief, even though a heavy one, could 
not crush the light out of so joyous and faithful a heart. 
She still possessed the woman’s angelic gifts of hope 
and faith. She had, too, the woman’s blessed quality 
of mercy. She forgave — trusting that her forgiveness 
would bring a change. She prayed, and waited, and 
hoped — in secret confidence with her own heart. 
Another influence would be added to hers ere long. 
When she gave his child into his arms, and joined its 
supplication to hers, she believed, nay, she knew, that 
her happiness would be returned to her. 

But before that day came, she was left alone. Her 
husband, from the hour she had given herself into his 
power, had followed one careless, selfish, and cynical 
course. She would not, could not believe that this was 
his natural life, but only a temporary mood. 

When first he spoke of going to sea again, on a long 
voyage, she was pleased, and thought gladly of the 
change for her, who had never seen the great world. 
When he coldly said that she was to remain, she became 
alarmed, — she could not be left alone, — she implored, 
she prayed to go with him. 

Then came the sneer, the brutal refusal, the master’s 
command, the indelible insult of expressed weariness 
and dislike. She held her peace. 


ALICE WALMSLEY. 


123 


When the day came, he would have left her, for years 
of absence, without a kiss ; but the poor soul, hunger- 
ing and waiting for a loving word or look, unable to 
believe her great affection powerless to win a return, 
could not bear this blighting memory. She clung to 
him, sobbing her full heart on his breast ; she kissed 
him and prayed for him, with her hands on his shoul- 
ders, and her streaming eyes on his; she blamed 
herself, and told him she would be happy till he 
returned, — the thought of her coming joy would bless 
her life, and bless and preserve him on the sea. With 
such words, she let him go. 

Firmly and faithfully the loving heart kept this last 
promise. Months passed, and her lonely home grew 
very dear to her. Her young heart refused to remem- 
ber the pain of the past, and would recall day after day, 
untiringly, the few poor pleasures of her wedded life. 
She would not allow herself to think how much even 
of these pleasures was due to others than her husband — 
to her mother and her old friends. 

But all her sorrow died, and her doubt and fear fled 
away on the day when she took to her yearning breast 
the sweet baby that was hers and his. God’s eye 
seemed too full of love that day. The harvest of her 
young life was the bursting of a flower of exquisite joy. 
Her baby was a prayer — God had come near to her, 
and had sent her an angelic present. Her life for many 
days was a ceaseless crooning melody of soft happiness, 
mingled with prayers for her husband absent on the sea. 

Then came the lightning, and blasted her fabric of 
joy, and shrivelled her future life into hopelessness be- 
fore her face. One moment it rose fair and sightly 
and splendid ; the next, it was scattered at her scorched 
feet, a pile of blackened and pitiful ruin. 0, day of 
sorrow, would it had been of death ! 

It was a bright and happy morning, and she sat in 
her pleasant little room, with the baby in her arms. 


124 


MOONDYNE. 


She had been dreaming awake. She w r as full of peace 
and thankfulness for her exceeding joy. 

Suddenly, a shadow fell upon her — some one had 
entered the room. She looked up, and met a terrible 
face — a woman’s face, glaring at her and at her child. 
She could not scream — she was paralyzed with terror. 
The face was crowded with passion — every dreadful 
line seemed to possess a voice of wrath and hatred. 

Alice had no power to defend herself; but she 
folded her baby closer to her breast, and looked straight 
at the dreadful face. 

“ You think you are his wife ! ” cried the woman, 
with a laugh of hideous derision. “ You think he loves 
you ! You lie ! You lie ! He is my husband ! He 
never was yours ! He is mine, mine ! And he lied 
to you ! ” 

More was said by the woman — much more ; but it 
all resolved itself into this in Alice’s confused memory. 
Papers the stranger produced, and held before Alice’s 
eyes. She read the written words — they were trans- 
ferred to her brain in letters of fire. Nearer and 
nearer came the dreadful woman, and more threatening 
the insults she hissed into Alice’s face. She laid her 
hand on the baby’s shoulder, and crushed it, cursing it. 

Still Alice could not scream. Her heart gave irreg- 
ular throbs — her brain was beginning to reel. Nearer, 
still nearer, the hateful face — the words struck her in 
the eyes like missiles — they sprang like knives at her 
heart — her body grew weak — the baby fell from her 

breast and lay upon her knees 0 God ! the silent 

agony — the terrible stranger had seized the child — 
the mother’s senses failed — the sunlight grew dark — 
the sufferer fell unconscious at her enemy’s feet. 

When she raised her head, after hours of a merciful 
blank, she was alone, — her baby lay dead before 
her, — and the love and trust of her life lay stark and 
strangled by its side. 


ALICE WALMSLEY. 


125 


What more ? Nay, there was no more to he borne. 
The worst had come. The flaming rocket had spent 
its last spark in the dark sky — the useless stick was 
falling to the earth to be forgotten for ever. 

Friends ? What had they to say ? Kindness was 
dead. Shame had no existence. Sorrow, disgrace, in- 
famy, what had she to do with these ? But "they had 
taken her, had seized her as their prey, and she would 
make no resistance. 

With bonds of faith and love and trust and hope, 
Alice Walmsley’s life had been firmly bound to all that 
was good and happy. The destroyer’s knife had sev- 
ered all these at one merciless sweep ; and the sepa- 
rated and desolated heart sank like lead into the abyss 
of despair. 

Then followed a blank — intermixed with turmoil 
of formal evidence and legal speeches, and voices of 
clinging friends, who implored her to speak and clear 
herself of the dreadful char<m. At this word, her mind 
cleared — she looked at ana understood her position — 
and she refused to speak — she would not plead “ not 
guilty” when charged with killing her own child. 
Her mother, broken with years and with this affliction, 
tottered from the rails of the dock, against which she 
had leant, and sank heart-broken on the floor of the 
court. She was carried to the open air by weeping 
strangers, — carried past Alice, who never looked upon 
her dear face again. 

Still she stood silent, tearless, but conscious of every 
act and relation. Anguish had changed her in one 
day from a girl into a strong, self-reliant woman. To 
her own soul she said : “ My life is in ruin — nothing 
can now increase the burden. If I speak, another 
will stand here — another who has been wronged as I 
have been. She was wretched before she became 
guilty. Let me undergo — let me never see the face 
of one who knew me, to remind me of the past. Be- 


126 


MOONDYNE. 


tween freedom and memory, and imprisonment and 
forgetfulness — I choose the latter.” 

These thoughts never became words in Alice’s 
mind ; but this was the mental process which resulted 
in her silence in the dock. The trial was short — she 
was found guilty. Then came the solitude and si- 
lence of the great prison. 

Four white walls, a stone floor, a black iron door, a 
heavily barred window, through which she looked up 
at the moon and stars at night — and, enclosed within 
these walls, a young and beautiful girl, a tender heart 
that had never throbbed with a lawless desire, a con- 
science so sensitive, and a mind so pure that angels 
might have communed with her. 

Shall not this prisoner find peace in solitude, and 
golden sermons in the waves of pain ? 

She had been one day and night in Millbank. The 
severe matron or warder of the pentagon opened her 
cell-door in the morning, and handed her two books, 
a Bible and prayer-book. 

The window of the cell, outside the bars, was open. 
Without a word to the warder, the prisoner threw the 
books out of the open window. 

“ They are not true ; I shall pray no more,” she said, 
not fiercely, but firmly, as they fell into the yard 
within the pentagon. 

She was reported to the authorities. They sent the 
Bible-reader to pray with her, in the cell, according to 
the rule laid down for the convict prisons ; but she 
remained silent. They punished her, — for the dread- 
ful word “Murder” was printed on her door-card; 
they shut her up in a dark cell for days and weeks, 
till her eyes dilated and her body shrank under the 
meagre food. Bemember, a few weeks before, she was 
a simple, God-fearing country-girl. Neither prayer 
nor punishment could bring her into relenting, but 
only deepened the earnestness of her daily answer : — 


ALICE WALMSLEY. 


127 


“ I shall pray no more. ,, 

Her case was brought before the Chief Director, Sir 
Joshua Hobb. This disciplinarian visited her dark 
cell, and, with a harsh “ Ho, there ! ” flashed a brilliant 
lamp on the entombed wretch. She sat on a low seat 
in the centre of the dark cell, her face bowed into her 
hands, perhaps to shut out the painfully sudden glare. 

“ She won’t pray, eh ? ” said the great reformer, look- 
ing at the slight figure that did not move. “We’ll 
see.” He evidently took a special interest in this case. 

An hour later, the prisoner was taken from her cell, 
and dragged or pushed by two strong female warders 
till she stood in an arched passage beneath the prison. 
Her clothing was rudely torn from her shoulders to 
the waist; her wrists were strapped to staples in the 
wall ; and, before her weakened and benumbed brain 
had realized the unspeakable outrage, the lash had 
swept her delicate flesh into livid stripes. 

Then, for one weak moment, her womanhood con- 
quered, and she shrieked, as if in supplication, the 
name of Him she had so bitterly refused to worship. 

But the scream of her affliction was not a prayer, — 
it was the awful utterance of a parting spirit, the cry 
of a wrecked and tortured soul, an imprecation born of 
such agony as was only utterable in a curse. May 
God pity and blot out the sin ! 

They carried her senseless body to the hospital, 
where unconsciousness befriended her for many weeks. 
A brain-fever racked her ; she lived the terrors of the 
past every hour; a weaker body would have sunk 
under the strain ; but her time had not yet come. 

The fever left her at last, — her consciousness re- 
turned; the austere, philanthropic women and hack- 
neyed preachers labored by her bedside in rigid charity 
and sonorous prayer, during which her eyes remained 
closed and her lips motionless. 

As her strength returned, she moved about the 


128 


MOONDYNE. 


ward, feeling a pleasant relief when she could do a 
kindness to another inmate weaker than herself. She 
would warm the drinks, smooth the pillows, or care- 
fully give the medicines as prescribed, to her unfortu- 
nate sisters. And all this she performed silently. 
She never smiled, and no one but her own heart knew 
that her labor for others gave her comfort. 

When her health was quite restored, she had become 
valuable to the physicians and warders. She was 
asked to remain in the hospital rather than to go back 
and work in the cells. 

She chose the hospital, and entered at once on her 
regular duties as a nurse. 

Why did she choose the busy hospital, instead of 
the solitary cell? Because she was still a woman. 
Trust in God had been taken from her ; but she re- 
mained unselfish, or, rather, her life had assumed an 
exalted selfishness, possible only to highly organized 
natures. Though God was deaf, she could not believe 
that good was dead, for she still felt sympathy for her 
fellow-sufferers. God had made the world, but had 
forgotten it, and the spirit of evil had taken His place. 

“ They say you don ’t believe in religion ? ” said a 
dying woman to her one day ; “ then maybe you don ’t 
believe that God has punished me like this for my 
evil ways ? ” 

Alice Walmsley looked at the unfortunate — then 
searched her own heart before answering. Her afflic- 
tion was her own; God had deserted her — had He 
also deserted this poor wretch ? 

“ God has not punished you,” she answered ; “ you 
have brought on your own punishment.” 

“Then God will give me my child in the other 
world ? ” cried the woman with pitiful earnestness ; “ O, 
say He will, and I shall die happy ! ” 

Alice did not answer ; but the iron of the question 
pierced her soul. There lived beneath all the burden 


ALICE WALMSLEY. 


129 


of her suffering a love that thrilled her day and night, 
a yearning that never slept, a memory and pity of 
unspeakable tenderness for her dead child. It was 
grief in love and love in grief. She had tried to 
reason it away, but in vain. God, who had tortured 
her, or allowed her torture, had seized her babe for 
ransom. While she was wronged before Him, He 
held a hostage for her silence. 

How should she answer this dying woman’s question ? 

She walked from the ward straight to the matron’s 
office, and asked to be sent to the cells — she could 
work no more in the hospital. 

Expostulation, argument, threats, had no effect on 
her determination. Her resolution troubled every one 
in the hospital, for her services were highly prized. 
But she had settled the question. The mind may 
delay in solving a problem, but the soul’s solution is 
instantaneous and unalterable. She was sent to the 
cell. 


II. 

A FLOWER IN THE CELL. 

Five years of silent imprisonment had passed over 
Alice Walmsley — years of daily and hourly change 
and excitement for the outer world. Five years in 
solitary confinement are only one day, one day of 
dreary monotony repeated one thousand eight hundred 
and twenty-five times. 

Take a starving beggar from the street, and seat 
him at your table, and tell him that he shall have food 
and money if he will turn his plate face downward, 
and return it face upward, one thousand eight hun- 
dred and twenty-five times — and the hungry wretch 
will drop from exhaustion before half the turnings are 
9 


130 


MOONDYNE. 


done, and will run from your house with curses. The 
solitary prisoner turns the same number of days with 
harrowing weariness a thousand times multiplied in 
five years. The days and nights of those years had 
passed like a black and wffiite vibration over Alice 
Walmsley’s life. They had brought little change to 
the outward eye ; and the inward change was only a 
settlement of the elements of doubt and disbelief and 
despair into a solid deposit in her heart. 

No friends had visited her. When her mother died, 
there was left no living relative. She had no love nor 
attraction beyond her cell — beyond her ow T n soul 
Every tie worth keeping had then been torn asunder. 
Some lesser bonds she since had unloosed herself. 
Why should any happy thing be united to one so for- 
lorn and wretched ? 

For God’s pleasure she was undergoing this torture 
— so they told her. She had neither sinned nor re- 
belled. She had been given life, and she had grown 
to love it — but when the summer of her life had 
come, she was drenched with affliction and wrong, 
which she had not earned, of the cause of which she 
was as innocent as her babe, murdered before her 
eyes. Her heart, hope, love, trust, had been flung down 
and trampled in the dust. 

The alms of prayer that were doled out by the nasal 
Scripture-readers had long since been carried past her 
door. They regarded her as hopelessly lost. She never 
spoke her dissent ; but they could see that she did not 
hear them, that she did not believe them. So they 
left her to herself. 

One day, a man sat in the governor’s office with a 
large book before him, in which he had been carefully 
reading a page on which the governor, standing beside 
him, had placed his index-finger. 

“ It is a remarkable case,” said the governor ; “ and 
she certainly is not insane.” 


ALICE WALMSLEY. 


131 


“ She was not a criminal by association ? ” asked the 
visitor, closing the hook. He was a powerfully built, 
dark-faced man, with a foreign air, and a deep voice. 
The studied respect of the governor proved him to be 
a person of importance. It was Mr. Wyville, who had 
recently arrived in London, and who was visiting the 
prisons, with authority from the Ministry itself. 

“ Ho,” said the governor ; “she was a village-girl, 
wife of a sea-captain. Here, at page 42, we find the 
police reports — see, only one short entry. The police 
didn’t know her.” 

“ She has never defended herself, nor reproached 
others ? ” asked Mr. Wyville'. 

“ Hever,” answered the governor. “ She has never 
spoken about herself.” 

“ It is very strange, and very sad,” said Mr. Wy- 
ville to the governor. And to himself he murmured, 
“ She must have suffered fearful wrong.” 

Soon after, in company with the governor, he passed 
along the corridor, and stopped at Alice Walmsley’s cell. 
The warder opened the door. Mr. Wyville did not 
look at the prisoner, but walked across the cell, as if 
observing the window bars, upon which he laid his hand. 

“ The iron is covered with rust,” he said to the 
governor. “ The windows of this range certainly need 
repainting.” 

Then, apparently looking around in the same practi- 
cal way, Mr. Wyville remained, perhaps, a minute in 
the cell. He had scarcely turned his eyes on the pris- 
oner ; yet the mute intensity of her face had sunk into 
his heart. 

“ She has been terribly wronged,” he repeated to 
himself, as he left the prison. “ God help her ! she is 
very young to be so calm.” 

When Mr. Wyville emerged from the prison arch, 
he walked rapidly along the river toward Westminster. 
He was in deep thought. He proceeded a little dis- 


132 


MOONDYNE. 


tance, then stopped, and looked down on the turbid 
stream, as if undecided. This was unlike the usual 
calm deliberateness of his conduct. He was evidently 
perplexed and troubled. After pausing a while, he 
looked at his watch, and then retraced his steps, passed 
Millbank, and walked on in the direction of Chelsea. 

It was an old habit of his to solve difficult questions 
as he walked ; and he selected a quiet suburb, with 
streets leading into the country roads. 

In the streets, there was nothing very noticeable 
about the man, except his athletic stride and deeply 
bronzed face. He might be classed by the passing 
observer as a naval officer who had served many years 
in Southern latitudes, or as -a foreign captain. His 
dress had- something of the sailor about its style and 
cloth. But it is the inner man who interests us : let 
us follow the burden of his thought. 

“ Remorse does not end in this calmness, unless the 
prisoner be insane. Her mind is clear; she is not 
melancholy ; she is self-possessed and firm. Her 
health has not suffered. Yet, she has abandoned be- 
lief in man’s truth and God’s mercy. She does not 
claim that she is innocent ; she makes no defence and 
no charge ; she accepts her punishment without a com- 
plaint. These are not the symptoms of remorse or 
guilt. She has abandoned prayer; she deliberately 
shuts out the past and the future. Yet she is in all 
other respects obedient, industrious, and kind. There 
is only one explanation of these contradictions — she 
is innocent, and she has suffered terrible wrong.” 

Mr. Wyville did not return to his house till late in 
the evening. He had walked for hours ; and, as he 
went, he had unravelled, with infinite patience, the 
psychological net-work that had troubled him. He 
had come to a decision. 

Two days after his visit to the prison, Alice Walms- 
ley sat in her cell, sewing tirelessly. The morning had 


ALICE WALMSLEY. 


133 


opened like all the other mornings of her imprison- 
ment ; there was nothing new, nothing to suggest a 
new train of thought. 

Some one who walked along the corridor about 
ten o’clock had seemed to hesitate a moment at her 
cell, and then had passed on. The governor, she 
thought, who had glanced through the watch-grate. 

In the wall of every cell there was a minute hole, 
about two inches square on the exterior, cut in the 
solid stone. The opening, which grew wide towards 
the interior of the cell, was in the shape of a wedge. 
A warder outside could see a large part of the cell, 
while the prisoner could only see the eye of the warder. 
As the officers wore woollen slippers, they could 
observe the prisoners without being heard or seen. 

At this opening, Alice Walmsley thought, the gov- 
ernor had stopped as he passed, and had looked into 
her cell. It was not unusual. 

A few minutes later she paused in her work, almost 
impatiently, and tried to put away from her an unwel- 
come thought. After a short pause she renewed her 
sewing, working rapidly for a few minutes ; and then 
she laid the coarse cloth aside, and buried her face in 
her hands. 

She was thinking of her old life, of her old self ; 
she had tried to escape from it, but could not. For 
years she had separated the past and the present until 
she had actually come to think of herself as two 
beings — one, who had been happy, and who was dead 

— the other, living, but separated from all the world 

— alone, with neither memories nor hopes, neither past 
nor future. 

Yet to-day, without apparent cause, the two selves 
had drawn together — the happy Alice had come be- 
seechingly to the unhappy one. 

For an hour she remained motionless, her face 
bowed in her hands. Then she raised her head, but 


134 


MOONDYNE. 


she did not renew her work. She stood up, and 
walked across the cell, and re-crossed it, in the rapid 
way of restless prisoners ; but on the second passage, 
she stood still, with a bewildered air. Her eye had 
caught a gleam of bright color in the opening of the 
watch-grate. There was a flower in her cell ! 

She trembled as she reached her hand to take it. 
She did not try to recover her dispassionate calmness. 
She took it in her hand, and raised it to her lips 
slowly, and kissed it. It was a sweet rosebud, with 
two young leaves. She had not seen a flower nor 
heard a bird sing since she left her own little garden. 

This tender thing had stolen inside her guard. Its 
sweet fragrance, before she knew of its presence, had 
carried her mind back to the happy days of her girl- 
hood. She kept the flower to her lips, kissing it. 
She fed her wistful eyes on its beauty. She had been 
so long without emotion, she had so carefully repressed 
the first promptings of imagination, that her heart 
had become thirsty unto death for some lovely or 
lovable thing. This sweet young flower took for her 
all forms of beauty. As she gazed on it, her soul 
drank in its delicious breath, like a soft and sensuous 
music ; its perfect coloring filled her with still 
another delight ; its youth, its form, its promise, the 
rich green of the two leaves, its exquisite complete- 
ness, made a very symphony for the desolate heart. 

Two hours passed, and still she fondled the precious 
gift. She had not once thought of how the flower had 
come into her cell. 

“You are pleased at last, Humber Tour,” said a 
female warder, who had been looking into Alice’s cell. 

Humber Four raised her eyes from the flower, and 
looked silently her answer. For the first time in five 
years, the warder saw that her eyes were flooded with 
tears. 

She did not sew any more that day, — and, strange 


ALICE WALMSLEY. 


135 


to say, tlie officers took no heed of her idleness. 
There was a change in her face, a look of unrest, of 
strangeness, of timidity. 

When first she looked upon the flower, a well had 
burst up in her heart, and she could not stop its 
flood. In one hour it had swept away all her barriers, 
had swamped her repression, had driven out the hope- 
less and defiant second self, and had carried into her 
cell the wronged, unhappy, but human and loving 
heart of the true Alice Walmsley. 

She was herself. She feared to think it, — but she 
knew it must be so. When the warder spoke to her 
now, she shrank from the tone. Yesterday, it would 
have passed her like the harsh wind, unheeded. 

That night, unlike all the nights of her imprison- 
ment, she did not lie down and sleep as soon as the 
lights were extinguished. With the little flower in her 
hand, she sat on her low bedside in the still darkness, 
feeling through all her nature the returning rush of 
her young life’s sympathy with the world. 

The touch of the rosebud in her hand thrilled her 
with tenderness. She made no attempt to shut out 
the crowding memories. They flooded her heart, and 
she drank them in as a parched field drinks the drench- 
ing rain. 

Toward midnight the moon rose above the city, 
silver-white in a black-blue sky, lovelier than ever she 
had seen it, Alice thought, as she looked through the 
bars of her window. She stood upon her low bed, 
opened the window, and looked up. At that moment 
her heart was touched with a loving thought of her 
dead mother. Her arms rested on the window-ledge, 
and her hands were raised before her, holding between 
them the little flower, as she might have held a peace- 
offering to a king. 

Softly as the manna falls upon the desert, or the 
dew upon the wild flower, descended on the afflicted 


136 


MOONDYNE. 


heart the grace of God’s love and mercy. The Eye 
that looked from above on that white face upturned 
amid the gloom of the prison, beheld the eyes brimmed 
with tears, the lips quivering with profound emotion, 
and the whole face radiant with faith and sorrow and 
prayer. 

“ 0, thank God ! ” she whispered, her weeping eyes 
resting on the beautiful deep sky; “ thank God for 
this little flower ! 0, mother, hear me in heaven, and 
pray for me, that God may forgive me for doubting 
and denying His love ! ” 

With streaming eyes she sank upon her knees by 
the bedside, and poured her full heart in passionate 
prayer. And, as she prayed, kneeling on the stones 
of her cell, with bowed head, the beautiful moon had 
risen high in the vault of night, and its radiance 
flooded the cell, as if God’s blessing were made manifest 
in the lovely light, that was only broken by the dark 
reflection of the window bars, falling upon the mourner 
in the form of a cross. It was long past midnight 
when she lay down to rest. 

But next day Alice began her monotonous toil as 
on all previous days. She was restless, unhappy ; her 
face was stained with weeping in the long vigil of the 
night. But her heart had changed with the brief rest 
she had taken. She began her day without prayer. 
Her mind had moved too long in one deep groove to 
allow its direction to be changed without laborious efforts 

The little flower that had touched her heart so deeply 
the day before lay upon the low shelf of her cell. 
Alice took it up with a movement of the lips that 
would have been a sad smile but for the emptiness of 
her poor heart. “ It grew in its garden, and loved its 
sweet life,” she thought ; “ and when the sun w r as 
brightest, the selfish hand approached and tore it 
from its stem, to throw it next day into the street, 
perhaps.” 


ALICE WALMSLEY. 


137 


Then flashed, for the first time, into her mind the 
question — Who had placed the flower in her cell ? 
Had she been unjust — and had the hand that pulled 
this flower been moved by kindness, and kindness to 
her ? 

The thought troubled her, and she became timid 
and impressionable again. Who had brought her this 
flower ? Whoever had done so was a friend, and pitied 
her. Else why — but perhaps every prisoner in the 
ward had also received a flower. Her heart closed, 
and her lips became firm at the thought. 

A few moments later, she pulled the signal-wire of 
her cell, which moved a red board outside the door, so 
that it stood at right angles from the wall. This 
brought the warder, to know what was wanted. The 
door was opened, and the warder, a woman with a 
severe face but a kind eye, stood in the entrance. 
Alice had the flower in her hand. 

* Have all the prisoners received flowers like this ? ” 
she inquired, with a steady voice. 

“ Ho,” said the warder. 

In five years, this was the first question Humber 
Four had ever asked. 

“ Why was this given to me ? ” she asked, her voice 
losing its firmness, and her eyes filling with tears. 

“ I don’t know,” said the warder. 

This was true : the hand that had dropped the flower 
into the watch-grate had done so unseen. The warder 
only knew that orders had been received from the gov- 
ernor that Humber Four was not to be disturbed, nor 
the flower taken away. 

The door closed again, and Alice raised the flower 
to her lips and kisspd it. Some one had pitied 
her, had thought of her. She was not alone in the 
world. This reflection she could not drive away. 
She sat down to her work ; but she could not see the 
cloth — her eyes were blurred with tears, her hands 


138 


MOONDYNE. 


trembled. At last she rose, and pressed her open 
hands to her streaming eyes, and then sank on her 
knees beside her bed, and sobbed convulsively. 

How long she remained so she did not know, but 
she felt a hand laid softly on her head, and heard her 
name called in a low voice, — 

“ Alice ! ” 

A woman had entered the cell, and was kneeling 
beside her. 

Alice raised her head, and let her eyes rest on a face 
as beautiful as an angel’s, a face as white as if it were a 
prisoner’s, but calm and sweet and sympathetic in every 
feature ; and round the lovely face Alice saw a strange, 
white band, that made it look like a face in a picture. 

It was a Sister of Mercy she had seen before when 
she worked in the hospital ; she remembered she had 
seen her once sit up all night bathing the brow of a 
sick girl, dying of fever. This thought came clearly 
to her mind as she looked at Sister Cecilia’s face, and 
saw the unselfishness and devotion of her life in her 
pure look. 

“ Alice,” said Sister Cecilia, “ why do you grieve so 
deeply ? tell me why you are so unhappy — tell me, 
dear, and I will try to make you happier, or I will 
grieve with you.” 

Alice felt her whole self-command deserting her, and 
her heart melting at the kindness of the voice and 
words. 

“Turn to me, and trust me, dear,” said Sister 
Cecilia ; “ tell me why you weep so bitterly. I know 
you are innocent of crime, Alice ; I never believed you 
guilty. And now, I have come to bring you comfort.” 

Sister Cecilia had put one arm around Alice, and, as 
she spoke, with the other hand she raised the tearful 
face and kissed it. Then the flood-gates of Alice’s 
affliction burst, and she wept as if her heart were 
breaking. 


ALICE WALMSLEY. 


139 


Sister Cecilia waited till the storm of sorrow had 
exhausted itself, only murmuring little soothing words 
all the time, and patting the sufferer’s hand and cheek 
softly. 

“ Now, dear,” she said at length, “ as we are kneel- 
ing, let us pray for a little strength and grace, and 
then you shall tell me why you grieve.” 

Sister Cecilia, taking Alice’s hands between her own, 
raised them a little, and then she raised her eyes, with 
a sweet smile on her face, as if she were carrying a 
lost soul to the angels, and in a voice as simple as a 
child’s, and as trustful, said the Lord’s Prayer, Alice 
repeating the words after her. 

Never before had the meaning of the wonderful 
prayer of prayers entered Alice’s soul. Every sentence 
was full of warmth and comfort and strength. The 
words that sank deepest were these, — she repeated 
them afterwards with the same mysterious effect, — 
“ Thy will be done on earth, as it is in heaven .” She 
did not know why these words were the best, but they 
were. 

“ Now, Alice,” said Sister Cecilia, rising cheerfully, 
when the prayer was done, “ we are going to bathe our 
faces, and go on with our sewing, and have a long 
talk.” 

Alice obeyed, or rather she followed the example. 
Sister Cecilia’s unaffected manner had won her so 
completely that she felt a return of her girlish 
companionship. All other teachers of religion whom 
Alice had seen in the prison had come to her with un- 
sympathetic formality and professional airs of sanctity, 
which repelled her. 

Half an hour later, Alice was quietly sewing, while 
Sister Cecilia sat on the pallet and talked, and drew 
Alice into a chat. She made no reference to the grief 
of the morning. The cases in the hospital, the peni- 
tence of poor sick prisoners, the impenitence of others. 


140 


MOONDYNE. 


the gratitude and the selfishness and the many other 
phases of character that came under her daily observa- 
tion — these were the topics of the little Sister’s con- 
versation. 

“ Why, I might as well be a prisoner, too,” she said, 
smiling, and making Alice smile ; “ I have been in the 
hospital seven years. I was there two years before 
you came. You see, I am as white as a prisoner.” 

“ Yes,” said Alice, looking sadly at her ; “ it is not 
right. Why do you not grieve as they do ? ” 

“ Why ? ” answered Sister Cecilia, gayly, . “ because 
I am not a criminal, perhaps. I am like you, Alice ; 
I have less reason to grieve than the other poor 
things.” 

Alice had never seen it in this light before, and she 
could not help smiling at the philosophy of the little 
Sister. But she was affected by it very deeply. 

“ If you had remained in the hospital, Alice,” said 
the nun, “ you would have been as much a Sister of 
Mercy as I am. Do you know, I was very sorry when 
you left the hospital.” 

Every word she said, somehow, touched Alice in a 
tender place. Was the wise little nun choosing her 
words ? At any rate, it was well and kindly done. 

When she kissed Alice, and pulled the signal- wire 
to go out, her smile filled the cell and Alice’s heart 
with brightness. She promised to come and see her 
every day till the ship sailed ; and then they would be 
together all the day. 

“ Are you going to Australia?” asked Alice, in 
amazement. 

“ Certainly,” said Sister Cecilia, with a smile of 
mock surprise. “ Why, those poor children couldn’t 
get along without me — fifty of them. Now, I ’m 
very glad I shall have you to help me, Alice. We ’ll 
have plenty to do, never fear.” 

She was leaving the cell — the warder had opened 


ALICE WALMSLEY. 


141 


the door — when Alice timidly touched her dress, and 
drew her aside, out of the warder’s sight. 

“ I am not a Catholic,” said Alice, in a tremulous 
whisper. 

“ No matter, child,” said the little nun, taking her 
face between her hands and kissing her eyes ; “ you 
are a woman. Good-by, till to-morrow ; and say your 
prayers, like my own good girl.” 

Alice stood gazing at the spot where she had stood, 
long after the door had closed. Then she turned and 
looked through the window at the bright sky, with her 
hands clasped at full length before her. As she 
looked, a sparrow perched on her window-sill, and she 
smiled, almost laughed at the little cautious fellow. 
She took some crumbs from her shelf and threw them 
to him ; and as she did so she thought that she might 
have done it every day for five years had she been as 
happy as she was then. 


III. 


FOLLOWING A DARK SPIRIT. 

About a week after the incident of the flower, Mr. 
Wyville, accompanied by his black servant, Ngarra-jil, 
left London on the Northern train. The black man 
was clad from throat to feet in a wrap or mantle of 
thick cloth, though the summer day was bland and 
warm. He settled silently into a corner of the rail- 
way carriage, watching his master with a keen and 
constant look. Mr. Wyville, sitting beside the win- 
dow, seemed to observe the richly cultivated fields and 
picturesque villages through wdiich the mail train flew 
without pausing ; but in truth he neither saw nor 
thought of outward things. 


142 


MOONDYNE. 


There is a power in some minds of utterly shutting 
out externals — of withdrawing the common functions 
from the organs of sense to assist the concentration of 
the introverted mind. At such a time, the open eye is 
blind, it has become a mere lens, reflecting but not 
perceiving ; the tympanum of the ear vibrates to the 
outward wave, but has ceased to translate its message 
to the brain. The soul within has separated itself 
from the moving world, and has retired to its cell like 
an anchorite, taking with it some high subject for con- 
templation, or some profound problem for solution. 

From this closet of the soul emerge the lightning 
thoughts that startle, elevate, and deify mankind, 
sweeping away old systems like an overflow of the 
ocean. Within this cell the Christ-mind reflected for 
thirty-three years, before the Word was uttered. Within 
this cell the soul of Dante penetrated the horrescent 
gloom of the infernal spheres, and beheld the radiant 
form of Beatrice. Within this cell the spirit that was 
Shakespeare bisected the human heart, and read every 
impulse of its mysterious network. Here, the blind 
Milton forgot the earth, and lived an awful aeon be- 
yond the worlds, amid the warring thoughts of God. 

Great and sombre was the Thought which lay within 
the cell of this traveller’s soul, to be investigated and 
solved. Villages, and fields, and streams passed the 
outward eye, that was, for the time, the window of a 
closed and darkened room. 

As the pale corpse lies upon the dissecting table, 
before the solitary midnight student, so lay upon the 
table within this man’s soul, a living body for dissec- 
tion — the hideous body of Crime. For years it had 
lain there, and the brooding soul had often withdrawn 
from the outer world to contemplate its repulsive* and 
mysterious aspect. The knife was in the hand of the 
student, but he knew not where to begin the incision. 
The hideous thing to be examined was inorganic as a 


ALICE WALMSLEY. 


143 


whole, and yet every atom of its intertexture was a 
perfect organ. 

To his unceasing vision, the miscreated form be- 
came luminous and transparent; and he saw that, 
throughout its entire being, beat one maleficent pulsa- 
tion, accordant with the rhythm of some unseen and 
intermittent sea. He saw that the parts and the 
whole were one, yet many — that every atom had 
within itself the seminal part and the latent pulse of 
the ocean of Sin. 

Tor years he had looked upon this fearful body, 
wonderful, observant, speculative. For years, when 
the contemplation had ceased, he had knelt beside the 
evil thing and prayed for light and knowledge. 

Day and night were as an outward breath to the 
soul of the thinker. The light faded and the darkness 
fell, but he knew it not. His whole being was turned 
within, and he would have groaned with sorrow at 
what he saw, were it not for an adamantine faith in 
God, love, and justice, that bridged the gulf of doubt 
with a splendid arch. 

It was midnight when the train arrived in Liverpool. 
The black man, Ngarra-jil, who had watched so long 
and tirelessly the marvellous face of his master, rose 
from his corner, purposely arousing Mr. Wyville’s 
attention. He smiled kindly at Ngarra-jil, and spoke 
to him in his own language, continuing to do so as 
they were driven through the streets to a hotel. 

Something of unusual importance had brought Mr. 
Wyville from London. That night, though the fatigue 
of the journey would have overpowered an ordinary 
man, he did not retire to rest till early morning, and 
then he slept scarcely three hours. In the forenoon 
of that day, leaving Ngarra-jil at the hotel, he took a 
further journey, to the little village of Walton-le-Dale, 
— the native village of Alice Walmsley. 

It was clear that Mr. Wyville had come to Lanca- 


144 


MOONDYNE. 


shire on some purpose connected with this unhappy 
girl, for his first visit, having inquired at the inn, was 
to the quiet street where stood her old home. He 
walked up the weed-grown pathway to the deserted 
house, and finding the outer door of the porch unlocked, 
as it had been left five years before, he entered, and 
sat there on the decaying bench for a short time. Then 
he retraced his steps, and inquired his way to the 
police station. 

The solitary policeman of Walton-le-Dale was just 
at that time occupied in painting a water-barrel, which 
stood on its donkey-cart in the street. 

There was only one well of sweet water in Walton, 
the village lying on very low land ; and the villagers 
paid each week a halfpenny a family to their police- 
man, in return for which he left in their houses every 
day two large pails of water. 

Officer Lodge, they called him ; and though he was 
a modest and unassuming old fellow, he made a point 
of being deaf to any remark or request that was not 
prefaced by this title. He resented even “ Mr.” Lodge ; 
but he was excited to an indignant glance at the 
offensive familiarity of plain “ Lodge.” 

He was a small old man, of a gentle and feminine 
disposition ; but he had “ served his time ” on a man- 
of-war, and had been pensioned for some active service 
in certain vague Chinese bombardments. It was 
queerly inconsistent to hear the old fellow relate wild 
stories of carnage, with a woman’s voice and a timid 
maiden air. 

As Mr. Wyville approached Officer Lodge, that 
guardian of the peace was laboriously trying to turn 
the barrel in its bed so that he might paint the under- 
side. The weight was too great for the old man, and 
he was puzzled. He stood looking at the ponderous 
cask with a divided mind. 

“ Kaise it on its end,” said Mr. Wyville, who had 


ALICE WALMSLEY. 


145 


reached the spot unseen by the aquarian police- 
man. 

Officer Lodge looked at him in distrust, fearing 
sarcasm in the remark ; but he met the grave impres- 
sive. look, and was mollified. Besides, the advice 
struck him as being practical. Without a word, he 
easily heaved the cask into an upright position, and 
found that he could paint its whole circumference. 
This put him in good humor. 

“ If that were my barrel, I should paint the hoops 
red instead of green,” said Mr. Wyville. 

“ Why ?” asked Officer Lodge, dipping his brush in 
the green paint. 

“ Because red lead preserves iron, while the verdi- 
gris used to color green paint corrodes it.” 

Officer Lodge wiped his brush on the rim of the 
paint-pot, and looked at Mr. Wyville timidly, but 
pleasantly. 

“ You know things, you do,” he said. “ But suppose 
you hadn’t no red paint ? ” 

“I should paint the whole barrel white — white 
lead preserves iron — and then give the hoops a smart 
coat of black. That would make a handsome barrel.” 

“ I should think so ! By jewkins ! wouldn’t it so ? ” 
said Officer Lodge. 

Mr. Wyville stood on the road talking with the old 
man, until that personage had quite decided to paint 
the barrel white. 

“Now, my friend,” said Mr. Wyville, “could you 
direct me to the office of the police inspector of this 
village ? ” 

Officer Lodge was rather taken aback. He was in 
his shirt-sleeves, like a common laborer, and here was 
a gentleman, evidently a foreigner, in search of the 
police inspector; he was gratified at the important 
title. He took his coat from the cart, and slipped it 
on, obtruding its brass buttons on the stranger. 

10 


146 


MOONDYNE. 


“There ain’t exac’ly a hinspector in Walton” he 
said, with an air of careless pomp ; “ but I ’m the 
police, at your service, sir.” 

“ 1 am very glad,” said Mr. Wy ville, gravely ; “ I 
wish to make some inquiries about a case of murder 
that occurred in this village some years ago. Can you 
assist me ? ” 

“ There was only one such a case, sir,” said Officer 
Lodge, the kindliness of his feminine heart speaking 
in his saddened tone ; “ I know all about it. It was 
me as arrested her ; and it was unwilling work on 
my side. But a hofficer must do his duty, sir.” 

“ Can we not sit down somewhere, and talk it 
over ? ” asked Mr. Wyville. 

“ At the hinn, sir, certingly,” replied Officer Lodge ; 
<e and a good glass a’ hale you can ’ave, too, sir.” 

They were soon seated in a quiet little room, and 
each had his “ glass a’ hale ” before him. 

Officer Lodge told the story like a man who had 
often told it before : all the angles were rounded, and 
the dramatic points were brought out with melodra- 
matic emphasis. Mr. Wyville let him run on till he 
had no more to say. 

“ And this strange woman, who came to the village 
on the morning of the murder,” he said, when he had 
heard all ; “ this woman who was Draper’s first wife — 
has she ever been heard of since ? ” 

“ 0, Harriet Draper, bless you, yessir,” said Officer 
Lodge ; “ she comes back periodical, and gets into 
quod — parding me, sir, I mean into jail.” 

“ What does she do ? ” asked Mr. Wyville. 

“ Well, she’s a bad ’un. We don’t know where she 
comes from, nor where she goes to. She drinks ’eavy, 
and then she goes down there near Draper’s ’ouse, and 
the other ’ouse, ’an she kicks up a muss of crying and 
shouting. She does it periodical ; and we has to lock 
her up.” 


ALICE WALMSLEY. 


147 


“ When was she here last ? ” asked Mr. Wyville. 

Officer Lodge pulled out a leather-covered pass- 
book, and examined it. 

“ She ’s out of her reg’lar horder, this time/’ he said, 
“ she ’aven’t been ’ere for a year. But I heerd of her 
later than that in the penitentiary at Liverpool.” 

Mr. Wyville asked no more questions. He wrote an 
address on a card, and handed it to Officer Lodge. 

“ If this woman return here,” he said, “ or if you find 
out where she is, write to that address, and you shall 
be well rewarded.” 

“ Head Office of Police, Scotland Yard, London,” 
read Officer Lodge from the card. “ Yessir, I ’ll do it. 
O, no, none of that,” he said, firmly, putting back 
some offering in Mr. Wyville’s hand ; “ I ’m in your 
debt, sir ; I was a’most going to make a fool of my- 
self with that bar’ 1. I ’m obliged to you, sir ; and I ’ll 
do this all the better for remembering of your kind- 
ness.” 

Mr. Wyville took a friendly leave of good-natured 
Officer Lodge, and returned to Liverpool by the next 
train. Arrived there, he did not proceed straight to 
his hote], but drove to the city penitentiary, where 
he repeated his inquiries about Harriet Draper ; but he 
only learned that she had been discharged eight 
months before. 

Neither police nor prison-books could give him 
further information. Disappointed and saddened, next 
day he returned to London. 


148 


MOONDYNE. 


IV. 

MR. HAGGETT. 

Sister Cecilia visited Alice Walmsley every da^ 
for several weeks, until the happy change in the 
latter’s life had grown out of its strangeness. Their 
intercourse had become a close and silent communion. 

For the first month or so, the kind and wise little 
nun had conversed on anything that chanced for a 
topic ; but afterwards they developed the silent system 
— and it was the better of the two. 

Sister Cecilia used to enter with a cheery smile, 
which Alice returned. Then Sister Cecilia would 
throw crumbs on the sill for the sparrows, Alice watch- 
ing her, still smiling. Then the little Sister would 
seat herself on the pallet, and take out her rosary, and 
smilingly shake her finger at Alice, as if to say : — 

“ Now, Alice, be a good girl, and don’t disturb me.” 

And Alice, made happy by the sweet companion- 
ship, would settle to her sewing, hearing the birds 
twitter and chirp, and seeing the golden sunlight pour 
through the bars into her cell. 

Sister Cecilia had a great many prayers to say every 
day, and she made a rule of saying the whole of them 
in Alice’s cell. 

The change in Alice’s life became known to all the 
officials in the prison, and a general interest was 
awakened in the visits of the good Sister to her cell. 
From the governor down to the lowest female warder, 
the incident was a source of pleasure and a subject of 
every-day comment. 

But there was one official who beheld all this with 
displeasure and daily increasing distrust. This was 
Mr. Haggett, the Scripture-reader of the prison. 

Into the hands of Mr. Haggett had been given the 


ALICE WALMSLEY. 


149 


spiritual welfare of all the convicts in Millbank, of 
every creed — Christian, Turk, and Jew. 

It was a heavy responsibility ; but Mr. Haggett felt 
himself equal to the task. It would be wrong to lay 
blame for the choice of such a teacher on any particu- 
lar creed. He had been selected and appointed by Sir 
Joshua Hobb, whose special views of religious influ- 
ence he was to carry out. Mr. Haggett was a tall man, 
with a highly respectable air. He had side-whiskers, 
brushed outward till they stood from his lank cheeks 
like paint-brushes; and he wore a long square-cut 
brown coat. He had an air of formal superiority. His 
voice was cavernous and sonorous. If he only said 
“ Good-morning,” he said it with a patronizing smile, 
as if conscious of a superior moral nature, and his 
voice sounded solemnly deep. 

■ One would have known him in the street as a man 
of immense religious weight and godly assumption, by 
the very compression of his lips. These were his 
strong features, even more forcible than the rigid re- 
spectability of his whiskers, or the grave sanctity of 
his voice. His lips were not exactly coarse or thick ; 
they were large, even to bagginess. His mouth was 
wide, and his teeth were long ; but there was enough 
lip to cover up the whole, and still more — enough 
left to fold afterwards into consciously pious lines 
around the mouth. 

When Mr. Haggett was praying, he closed his eyes, 
and in a solemnly-sonorous key began a personal inter- 
view with the Almighty. While he was informing 
God, with many deep “Thomknowests,” his lips were 
in full play ; every reef was shaken out, so to speak. 
But when Mr. Haggett was instructing a prisoner, he 
moved only the smallest portion of labial tissue that 
could serve to impress the unfortunate with his own 
unworthiness and Mr. Haggett’s exalted virtue and 
importance. 


150 


MOONDYNE. 


Mr. Haggett visited the cells for four hours every 
da)*, taking regular rounds, and prayed with and in- 
structed the prisoners. He never sympathized with 
them, nor pretended to, and, of course, he never had 
their confidence — except the sham confidence and 
contrition of some second-timers, who wanted a rec- 
ommendation for a pardon. 

There was another official who made regular rounds, 
with about the same intervals of time as Mr. Haggett. 
This was the searcher and fumigator — a warder who 
searched the cells for concealed implements, and 
fumigated with some chemical the crevices and joints, 
to keep them wholesomely clean. When a prisoner 
had a visit from the searcher and fumigator, he knew 
that Mr. Haggett would be around soon. 

The sense of duty in the two officials was very much 
alike under the surface ; and it would have saved ex- 
pense and time had Mr. Haggett carried, besides his 
Bible, the little bellows and probe of the fumigator — 
if he had been, in fact, the searcher and fumigator of 
both cells and souls. 

Mr. Haggett had observed, with horror, the visits of 
the Popish nun to the cell of a prisoner whom he 
knew to be a Protestant. Though he never had had 
anything to say to Humber Four, and never had prayed 
with her for five years, he now deemed her one of 
those specially confided to his care. He was shocked 
to the centre when first he saw the white-capped nun 
sitting in the cell, with a rosary in her hands. 

Mr. Haggett would have complained at once, but he 
did not like the governor. He had. been insulted, he 
felt he had, by the governor, who never met him but 
he asked the same impertinent question: “Well, Mr. 
Haggett, got your regular commission in the ministry 
yet?” 

Mr. Haggett was in hopes of becoming, some day, 
a regular minister of the Established Church. He 


ALICE WALMSLEY. 


151 


was “ studying for it,” he said ; and his long experience 
in the prison would tell in his favor. But the years 
had flown, and he had not secured the reverend title 
he so ardently coveted. The Lords Bishops were not 
favorably impressed by Mr. Haggett’s acquirements or 
qualities. 

The daily presence of the nun in one of his cells 
goaded him to desperation. He stopped one day at 
the door of Number Four, and, in his deepest chest- 
tones, with a smile that drew heavily on the labial 
reefs, addressed the Sister : — 

“ Is this prisoner a Bom — ah — one of your per- 
suasion, madam ? ” 

“ No, sir,” said the little Sister, with a kind smile at 
Alice ; “ I wish she were.” 

“ Hah ! ; — Why, madam, do you visit a prisoner who 
is not of your persuasion ? ” 

“ Because no one else visited her,” said Sister Ce- 
cilia, looking at Mr. Haggett with .rather a startled air ; 
“ and she needed some one.” 

“ Madam, I wish to pray with this prisoner this 
morning, and ah — ah — I will thank you to leave this 
cell.” 

The work dropped from Alice’s hands, and a wild 
look came into her eyes. First, she stared at Mr. 
Haggett, as if she did not understand. From his un- 
inviting face, now flushed somewhat, and working as 
if the godly man were in a passion, she turned, with a 
mute appeal, to Sister Cecilia. 

The nun had risen, startled, but not confused, at the 
unexpected harshness of the tone, rather than the 
words. She realized at once that Mr.‘ Haggett, who 
had never before addressed her, nor noticed her presence, 
had power to expel her from Alice’s cell, and forbid 
her entrance in future. 

She determined on the moment to make an effort 
for Alice’s sake. 


152 


MOONDYNE. 


“ This prisoner is to be my hospital assistant on the 
convict ship,” said Sister Cecilia to Mr. Haggett. 

“ Madam ! ” said Mr. Haggett, harshly, and there was 
a movement of his foot as if he would have stamped 
his order ; “ I wish to pray with this prisoner ! ” 

He motioned commandingly with his hand, ordering 
the nun from the cell. 

Sister Cecilia took a step toward the door, rather 
alarmed at the man’s violence, but filled with keen 
sorrow for poor Alice. 

The rude finger of the angry Scripture-reader still 
pointed from the cell. Sister Cecilia had taken one 
step outward, when Alice Walmsley darted past her, 
and stood facing Mr. Haggett, her left hand reached 
behind her with spread fingers, as if forbidding the 
nun to depart. 

“ Begone ! ” she cried to Haggett ; “ how dare you 
come here ? I do not want your prayers.” 

Mr. Haggett grew livid with passion at this insult 
from a prisoner. He had, perhaps, cherished a secret 
dislike of Alice for her old rebellion against his 
influence. He glared at her a moment in silent fury, 
while his great lips curved into their tightest reefs, 
showing the full line of his long teeth. 

But he did not answer her. He looked over her, 
into the cell, where Sister Cecilia stood affrighted. He 
reached his long arm toward her, and still commanded 
her from the cell, with a hand trembling with wrath. 
He would settle with the recalcitrant convict when 
this strange ally and witness had departed. 

“ Come out ! ” motioned the lips of the wrathful 
Scripture-reader, while his long finger crooked, as if it 
were a hook to drag her forth. 

At this moment, a key rattled in the door at the 
end of the corridor, and there entered the passage Sir 
Joshua Hobb, Mr. Wyville, and the governor, followed 
by the two warders of the pentagon. The gentlemen 


ALICE WALMSLEY. 


153 


were evidently on a tour of inspection. When they 
had come to the cell of Number Four, they stood in 
astonishment at the scene. 

Alice Walmsley, hitherto so submissive and silent, 
was aroused into feverish excitement. She stood fac- 
ing Mr. Haggett, and, as the others approached, she 
turned to them wildly. 

“ How dare this man interfere with me ? ” she cried. 
“ I will not allow him to come near me. I will not 
have his prayers ! ” 

“Be calm, child !” said Mr. Wyville, whom she had 
never before seen. His impressive and kind face and 
tone instantly affected the prisoner. Her hands fell to 
her sides. 

“Lock that cell!” said Sir Joshua Hobb, in a hard, 
quick voice. “ This prisoner must be brought to her 
senses.” 

Alice was again defiant in an instant. 

“ Tell this man to begone ! ” she excitedly demanded. 

“ Come out ! ” hissed Mr. Haggett, grimly stretching 
his neck toward Sister Cecilia, and still bending his 
lean finger like a hook. 

“ She shall not go out ! ” cried Alice, in a frenzy. 

It seemed to her as if they were tearing something 
dearer than life from her. She dashed the hooked 
hand of the Bible-reader aside, bruising it against the 
iron door. 

“Warders?” shouted Sir Joshua Hobb, “take this 
woman to the refractory cells. She shall remain in 
the dark till she obeys the rules. Take her away ! ” 

The warders approached Alice, who now stood in 
the door- way. She had turned her agonized face as 
she felt Sister Cecilia’s hand laid upon her shoulder, 
and her breast heaved convulsively. 

As the warders seized her arms, she started with 
pitiful alarm, and shuddered. 

“ Stop ! ” cried a deep voice, resonant with command. 
Mr. Wyville had spoken. 


154 


MOONDYNE. 


“ Release the prisoner J ” 

Every eye was turned on him. Even Alice’s excite- 
ment was subdued by the power of the strange inter- 
ruption. The Scripture-reader was the first to come 
to words. He addressed the governor. 

“ Who is this, who countermands the order of the 
Chief Director ? ” 

Before the governor could answer, Sir Joshua Hobb 
spoke. 

“ This is insolence, sir ! My order shall be obeyed.” 

“ It shall not ! ” said Mr. Wyville, calmly, and walk- 
ing to the cell door. 

“ By what authority do you dare interfere ? ” de- 
manded Sir Joshua Hobb. 

“ By this ! ” said Mr. Wyville, handing him a paper. 

The enraged Chief Director took the document, and 
glanced at the signature. 

“ Bah ! ” he shouted. “ This Ministry is dead. This 
is waste paper. Out of the way, sir ! ” 

“Stay!” said Mr. Wyville, taking from his breast a 
small case, from which he drew a folded paper, like a 
piece of vellum, which he handed to the governor of 
the prison. 

“ This, then, is my authority ! ” 

The prompt old major took the paper, read it, and 
then, still holding it before him, raised his hat as if in 
military salute. 

“ Your authority is the first, sir,” he said, decisively 
and respectfully, to Mr. Wyville. 

“ I demand to see that paper ! ” cried the Chief 
Director. 

The governor handed it to him, and he read it 
through, his rage rapidly changing into a stare of 
blank amazement and dismay. 

“ I beg you to forgive me, sir,” he said at length, in 
a low tone. “ It would have been for the benefit of 
discipline, however, had I known of this before.” 


ALICE WALMSLEY. 


155 


u That is true, sir,” answered Mr. Wyville, “ and had 
there been time for explanation you should have 
known my right before I had used it.” 

“ You have shaken my official authority, sir,” said 
Sir Joshua, still expostulatory. 

“ I am very sorry,” answered Mr. Wy ville ; “ but 
another moment’s delay and this prisoner might have 
been driven to madness. Authority must not forget 
humanity.” 

“ Authority is paramount, sir,” humbly responded 
Sir Joshua, handing the potent paper to Mr. Wyville ; 
“ allow me to take my leave.” 

The humiliated Chief Director walked quickly from 
the corridor. 

Mr. Wyville turned to the cell, and met the brim- 
ming eyes of the prisoner, the eloquent gratitude of 
the look touching him to the heart. He smiled with 
ineffable kindness, and with an almost imperceptible 
motion of the hand requested Sister Cecilia to remain 
and give comfort. 

Mr. Haggett still remained in the entry, hungrily 
watching the cell. Mr. Wyville passed in front of the 
door, and turning, looked straight in his face. The 
discomfited Scripture-reader started as if he had re- 
ceived an electric shock. He was dismayed at the 
power of this strange man. 

“ You have passed this door with your prayers for 
five years, sir,” said Mr. Wyville ; “ you will please to 
continue your inattention.” 

“ The prisoner is not a Eoman — ” Haggett began, 
with shaken tones. 

The hand of the soldierly old governor fell sharply, 
twice, on his shoulder. He looked round. The gover- 
nor’s finger was pointed straight down the passage, 
and his eye sternly ordered Mr. Haggett in the same 
direction. He hitched the sacred volume under his 
arm, and without a sound followed the footsteps of Sir 
Joshua. 


156 


MOONDYNE. 


His eager eyes had been denied a sight of the mys- 
terious document ; but his heart, or other organs, in- 
fallibly told him that he and his chief were routed 
beyond hope of recovery. 


Y. 

TWO HEADS AGAINST ONE. 

Sir Joshua Hobb sat in his Department Office in 
Parliament Street, with every sign of perplexity and 
rage in his face and attitude. His contest of authority 
with the unknown and mysterious man had fairly 
crushed him. In the face of the officials whom he had 
trained to regard his word as the utterance of . Power 
itself, never to be questioned nor disobeyed, he had 
been challenged, commanded, degraded. It was a 
bitter draught ; and what if he had only taken the 
first sickening mouthful ? 

He was interrupted in his morose reflections by the 
entrance of Mr. Haggett, whose air was almost as de- 
jected as his superior’s. 

Haggett stood silently at the door, looking at the 
great man, somewhat as a spaniel might look at its 
master. The spare curtain of his lips was folded into 
leathery wrinkles round his capacious mouth. 

“Haggett,” said Sir Joshua, turning wearily to the 
fire, “ who the devil is this man ? ” 

“ He ’s a rich Australian — ” began Haggett, in a 
confidential voice. 

“ Ass ! ” said the Chief Director, without looking at 
him. 

Mr. Haggett, returning not even a glance of resent- 
ment, accepted the correction, and remained silent. 

“Haggett,” said Sir Joshua, after a pause, during 


ALICE WALMSLEY. 157 

which he had stared into the fire, “ when does the con- 
vict ship sail ? ” 

“ In two weeks, sir.” 

“ I want you to go to West Australia on that ship, 
Haggett.” 

“ I, Sir J oshua ? Leave London — I shall be or- 
dained this year — I shall — ” 

“ Pshaw ! I want you, man. No one else will do. 
You can attend to private matters on your return. I 
shall personally assist you with my influence.” 

“ Well, Sir Joshua ? ” 

“No one else can do it, Haggett.” 

“ What is to be done, sir ? ” 

“ I want to know all that is to be known in Western 
Australia about this Wyville.” 

“ Do you suspect anything, sir ? ” asked Mr. Haggett. 

“ No ; I have no reason either for suspicion or belief. 
I know absolutely nothing about the man, nor can I 
find any one who does.” 

“ And yet that commission — ” 

“Yes — that was a disappointment. In one or two 
cases I have heard of the same high influence, given 
in the same secret manner.” 

“ Were the other holders mysterious, too ? ” asked 
Haggett, reflectively, folding and unfolding his facial 
hangings. 

“ They were all cases in which philanthropists might 
meet with opposition from officials ; and this strange 
but unquestionable power was given as a kind of 
private commission.” 

“ It strikes down all the rules, and — ” 

“ Yes, yes,” interrupted Sir Joshua, striking the coal 
with the tongs ; “ but there it is. It must be acknowl- 
edged without question.” 

“ Have you no clew to the reason for which this 
special authority was given to him ? ” asked Haggett. 

“ I have not thought of it ; but I am not surprised. 


158 


MOONDYNE. 


This man, as you know, has reformed the Indian Penal 
System at the Andaman Islands, expending immense 
sums of his own money to carry out the change. 
Afterward, he was received by the French Emperor as 
an authority on the treatment of crime, and had much 
to do with their new transportation scheme. A man 
with this record, accepted by the Prime Minister, was 
just the person to be specially commissioned by the 
Queen.” 

“ He is young to be so very wealthy,” mused 
Haggett. 

“ Yes ; that is mysterious — no one knows the source 
of his wealth. This is your mission — find out all 
about him, and report to me by mail within six 
months.” 

“ Then I am really to go to Australia ? ” said Hag- 
gett, with a doleful aspect. 

“ Yes, Haggett ; there ’s no other way. Inquiry into 
mysterious men’s lives is always worth the trouble. 
You may learn nothing, but — it had better be done.” 

“ Well, Sir Joshua, I want a favor from you in 
return.” 

“ What is it ? You shall have it, if it lie in my 
power.” 

“ Send that prisoner, Number Four, on the ship ; but 
countermand the order for the Papist nun.” 

“ You want the nun to remain ? ” 

“ Yes, sir; they ought to be separated. This Wyville 
takes a great interest in Number Four. It was he that 
sent the nun to her.” 

“ Certainly, Haggett ; it shall be done. Stay, let me 
write the order now.” 

“ Thank you, Sir Joshua,” said Haggett, rubbing his 
hands. 

“ There ; take that to the governor of Millbank. 
Number Four shall be sent with the first batch to the 
ship. The nun is to remain.” 


ALICE WALMSLEY. 


159 


Mr. Haggett departed, and as he walked down Par- 
liament Street, glancing furtively around to see that he 
was unobserved, he smiled to the uttermost reef. 


VI. 

FEMALE TRANSPORTS. 

The morning arrived for the convict ship to sail, 
and the last chains of male prisoners were mustered in 
the prison yard of Millbank, ready to be marched to 
the train, for embarkation on the convict ship at 
Portland. 

In one of the pentagonal yards stood the female 
prisoners, fifty in number. They whispered covertly to 
each other, enjoying for the first time for years the 
words that were not orders, and the faces that were 
not cold. 

“ What is your name ? ” 

“ How long have you served ? ” 

“ What nice hair you have.” 

“ Will they cut off our hair again in Australia ? ” 

“ Were you lagged before ? ” 

“ That one there, with the red mark on her cheek, 
was sentenced to be hung.” 

“ This is my second time.” 

These were the words that might be heard in the 
ranks — short sentences, full of direct meaning, such 
as are always spoken when formality is absent, and 
curiosity is excited. 

The male chains having been inspected by the gov- 
ernor, who was accompanied by Mr. Wyville, had 
marched from the prison to the railway station. 

Four great wagons or tumbrils rolled into the yard, 
to carry away the female convicts. Before they en- 


160 


MOON DYNE. 


tered the wagons, the governor addressed the women, 
telling them that their good conduct in prison had 
earned this change ; that their life in the new country 
to which they were going would be one of opportunity ; 
that their past was all behind them, and a fair field 
before them to work out honest and happy lives. 

Many of the prisoners sobbed bitterly as the kind 
governor spoke. Hope, indeed, was bright before them ; 
but they were parting from all that they had ever 
loved ; they would never more see the face of father or 
mother, brother or sister ; they would never more see 
an English field or an English flower. Their lives had 
been shattered and shameful ; but the moment of part- 
ing from every association of youth was the more em- 
bittered, perhaps, by the thought of their unworthiness. 

When the governor had spoken, they entered the 
tumbrils, and the guards fell in. The old governor 
raised his hat. He was deeply affected at the scene, 
common though it must have been to him. 

“ Good-by, and God bless you all in your new life ! ” 
he said. 

The driver of the front tumbril looked round, to see 
that all was ready before starting his horses. 

“Wait,” said a tall man, who was rapidly and 
eagerly scanning the faces of the women, as he passed 
from wagon to wagon ; “ there ’s a mistake here.” 

“ What is the matter there ? ” shouted the governor. 

“ There is one prisoner absent, sir,” said the tall 
man, who was Mr. Haggett ; “ one prisoner absent who 
was ordered for this ship.” 

“ What prisoner ? ” asked the governor. 

“Humber Four.” 

“ Start up your horses,” shouted the governor ; and 
the first tumbril lumbered out of the yard. 

The governor was looking at Mr. Haggett, who stood 
beside the last wagon, his face a study of rage and 
disappointment. 


ALICE WALMSLEY. 


161 


“ That prisoner was specially ordered for this ship,” 
he repeated. “ Sir Joshua Hobb wrote the order with 
his own hand.” 

“ He has countermanded it,” said the governor, 
curtly. 

“ When ? ” asked Haggett. 

“ Two hours ago,” said the governor. “ The pris- 
oner will remain in Millbank.” 

Mr. Haggett looked his baffled malevolence at the 
governor, who paid no heed to the glance. Mr. Wy- 
ville stood close to him ; but Haggett never met his 
eye during the scene. As he departed, however, in 
passing him, he raised his eyes for an instant to Mr. 
Wyville’s face and said, — 

I am going to West Australia. I shall soon re- 
turn.” 

Mr. Wyville’s face might have been of marble, so 
absolutely unconscious did he seem of the presence or 
words of Haggett. 

The tumbrils rolled from the yard with their strange 
freight, and Mr. Haggett strode from the prison. He 
stood on the poop of the transport as she sailed from 
Portland that afternoon. 

More than once that day did Haggett’s words repeat 
themselves like a threat in Mr. Wyville’s mind ; and 
when all was silent in sleeping London that night, he 
arose from the study-table at which he wrote, and 
paced the room in sombre thought. His mind was 
reasoning with itself, and at last the happier side con- 
quered. He stopped his tireless walk, and smiled ; but 
it was a sad smile. 

“ Poor children ! ” he murmured ; “ what would be- 
come of them here ? I must instruct Tepairu, and — 
and then,” he said, looking reverently upward through 
the night, “ Thy will be done.” 

11 


162 


MOONDYNE. 


VII. 

AFTER NINE YEARS. 

So the state of Alice Walmsley was not changed by 
the zeal of Mr. Haggett ; indeed no change had re- 
sulted from it except the increased hatred of the Chief 
Director for Mr. Wyville, and the sleuth-dog errand 
on which Haggett had sailed for Australia. 

Alice did not know nor think of the causes that had 
kept her from transportation. One day she was quietly 
informed by the warder that the ship had sailed. She 
hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry, for her own 
sake ; but of late she had not been quite alone in the 
world. Her eyes filled with tears, and she clasped her 
hands before her. 

“You are sorry, Number Four,” said the warder. 

“ She was so good — she made me so happy,” 
answered Alice, with streaming eyes. 

“ Who ? ” 

“ Sister Cecilia.” 

“ She has not gone,” said the warder, smiling ; “ see, 
she is coming here. Good day, Sister ; somebody was 
crying for you.” 

The joy of Alice was unbounded, as she held the 
serge dress of Sister Cecilia, and looked in her kind 
and pleasant face. The change in Alice’s character 
was more marked in this scene than in any circum- 
stance since the gleam of the flower had caught her 
eye in the cell. The strong will seemed to have 
departed ; the self-reliance, born of wrong and anguish, 
had disappeared ; she was a simple and impulsive girl 
again. 

* Between the innocent happiness of her young life 
and the fresh tenderness now springing in her heart, 
there lay an awful gulf of sorrow and despair. But 


ALICE WALMSLEY. 


163 


she was on the high bank — she looked across the 
gloom and saw the sunny fields beyond, and, as she 
looked, the far shore drew nearer to her, and the 
dismal strait between grew narrower. 

“ Alice,” said Sister Cecilia, gravely, when the 
happy greeting was over, “ it is now time that some- 
thing were done for your release.” 

The light faded from Alice’s face, and after a long 
look, full of sadness, at the Sister, she bent hei face 
into her hands, remaining silent. 

“Would you not like to be free, Alice?” 

“ I am happy here — I do not think of it — why do 
you ask me ? ” she said, wistfully. 

~ “ Because it is not right that an innocent person 
should remain here. Tell me the whole sad story, 
child, and let me see what can be done.” 

“0, Sister Cecilia, I cannot — I cannot!” sobbed 
Alice. “ 0, do not ask me — do not make me think of 
my sweet little baby — I cannot think of it dead — 
indeed, I cannot speak of that ! ” 

“ Alice,” said the nun, “ your baby is with God, 
saved from the stains and sorrows of life. This 
woman,” and the voice of Sister Cecilia grew almost 
severe, “ this terrible woman — I have heard that she 
is a bad and wretched woman, Alice — deserves 
nothing from you but justice. God demands- justice to 
ourselves as well as to others.” 

“ I cannot accuse her,” answered Alice, in a low 
voice, gradually returning to its old firmness. “ She 
has suffered more than I — God pardon her ! And I 
know that she suffered first.” 

“ Well, poor child,” said the nun, deeply affected, 
“ we must ask for a pardon, then, for you.” 

Alice rose from her low seat, and stood before the 
window, looking upward, with her hands clasped 
before her — an attitude grown familiar to her of late. 

“ My dead mother knows I am innocent of crime,” 


164 


MOONDYNE. 


she said slowly, as if speaking to her own heart ; " no 
one else knows it, though some may believe it. I 
cannot be pardoned for a crime I have not committed. 
That were to accept the crime. I shall not accuse her, 
though my own word should set me free. Do not ask 
me to speak of it any more, Sister Cecilia. I. shall 
remain here — and I shall be happier here.” 

Sister Cecilia dropped the subject, and never re- 
turned to it again. From that day she treated Alice 
Walmsley in another manner than of old. She spoke 
with her of all the crosses that came in her path, 
either to herself or others. By this means the latent 
sympathies of Alice were touched and exercised. She 
entered with interest into every story of the sorrow or 
suffering of the unfortunate, related to her by the 
kind little Sister. 

In this communion, which, if not happy, was at 
least peaceful, the months grew into years, and the 
years followed each other, until four summers more 
had passed through Alice’s cell. 

During those years, she had developed her true 
nature, saddened though it was by her surroundings. 
It seemed that her youth had been too thoughtless, 
too unstable, too happy, even to indicate her future. 
That bright girlhood was the rich, fallow ground. The 
five dark years of her agony and unbelief were the 
season of ploughing- and harrowing the fertile soil and 
sowing the fruitful seed. The four years of succeed- 
ing peace were the springtime and the early summer 
of her full life, during which the strong shoots grew 
forward toward the harvest of ripe womanhood. 

Toward the end of these four years a word of change 
came to her cell — she was once more selected among 
the fifty female prisoners to be sent on the annual 
convict ship to Western Australia. 

It was during the preparation for this voyage that 
Will Sheridan returned, a rich man, to find the shat- 


ALICE WALMSLEY. 


165 


tered pieces of his love and happiness. It was during 
one of these quiet days within Alice’s cell that he 
without, had wandered through London, a heart- 
stricken man, vainly seeking for interest in the pic- 
ture-galleries and churches. It was during one of 
these peaceful nights within the cell that he, without, 
led by the magnetism of strong love, found himself 
beneath the gloomy walls of Millbank, round which 
he wandered through the night, and which he could 
not leave until he had pressed his feverish lips against 
the icy stone of the prison. 

On the day when Will Sheridan at last stood before 
the door of Alice Walmsley’s cell, and read her be- 
loved name on the card, she sat within, patiently sew- 
ing the coarse cloth of her transport dress. When the 
door opened, and his yearning sight was blessed with 
that which it had longed for, she stood before him, 
calm, and white, and beautiful, with downcast eyes, ac- 
cording to her own modesty and the prison discipline. 

When he passed her door a few weeks later, and saw 
within the- sweet-faced Sister Cecilia, and heard, after 
so many years, the voice of her he loved, in one short 
sentence, which sent him away very happy, she dreamt 
not that a loving heart had drunk up her words as a 
parched field drinks the refreshing rain. 

So strong and so futile are the outreachings of the 
soul. They must be mutual, or they are impotent and 
vain. Reciprocal, they draw together through the 
density of a planet. Single, the one reaches for the 
other weakly, as a shadow touches the precipice, hope- 
lessly as death. 

That which we desire, we may feel ; but that which 
we neither know nor think, might just as well be non- 
existent. 


BOOK FOURTH. 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


I. 

THE PARLIAMENTARY COMMITTEE. 

“ Mr. Sheridan is to go before the Committee to-day, 
is he not?” asked Lord Somers, the Colonial Secre- 
tary, as he sat writing in Mr. Wyville’s study, with 
Sheridan reading the Times by the window, and Ham- 
erton lounging in an easy-chair. 

“ What Committee ? ” asked Hamerton, heedlessly. 

“ The Committee appointed to hear Sir J oshua 
Hobb’s argument against our Penal £111,” said the Sec- 
retary, as he continued to write. 

“ Does Sheridan know anything about prisons ? ” 
drawled Hamerton. 

“ He knows something about Australia, and the men 
we send there,” said the Secretary. 

“ Well — Hobb doesn’t. Hobb is a humbug. What 
does he want ? ” 

“ To control the Australian Penal System from Par- 
liament Street, and, instead of Mr. Wyville’s humane 
bill, to apply his own system to the Penal Colony.” 

“ What do you think of that, Mr. Sheridan ? ” asked 
Hamerton, without raising his head from the cushion. 

“That it would be folly before Mr. Wyville’s bill was 
drawn, — and criminal afterward.” 

“ Bravo ! ” said Hamerton, sitting straight. “ Bravo, 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 167 

Australia ! Go before the Committee, by all means ; 
and talk just in that tone. When do they sit ? ” 

“ In an hour,” said Lord Somers. “We are only 
waiting for Mr. Wyville, and then we go to the 
House.” 

“ May I go ? ” asked Hamerton. 

“ Certainly,” said the Secretary. “ You may get a 
chapter for a novel, or a leader for the Telegraph” 

Mr. Wyville soon after entered, and the merits of 
the opposing bills were freely discussed for a quarter of 
an hour. At length, Lord Somers said it was time to 
start, and they proceeded on foot toward the Parlia- 
ment House, Lord Somers and Hamerton leading, and 
Mr. Wyville and Sheridan following. 

On the way, Mr. Wyville led his companion to speak 
of the sandalwood trade, and seemed to be much inter- 
ested in its details. At one point he interrupted Sher- 
idan, who was describing the precipitous outer ridge of 
the Iron-stone Hills. 

“ Your teams have to follow the winding foot of this 
precipice for many miles, have they not ? ” he asked. 

“ For thirty-two miles,” answered Sheridan. 

“ Which, of course, adds much to the expense of 
shipping the sandalwood ? ” 

“Adds very seriously, indeed, for the best sandal- 
wood lies back within the bend ; so that our teams, 
having turned the farther flank of the hills, must re- 
turn and proceed nearly thirty miles back toward the 
shore.” 

“ Suppose it were possible to throw a chain-slide 
from the brow of the Blackwood Head, near Bunbury, 
to a point on the plain — what would that save ? ” 

“Just fifty miles of teaming,” answered Sheridan, 
looking at Wyville in surprise. “ But such a chain 
could never be forged.” 

“ The Americans have made slides for wood nearly 
as long,” said Mr. Wyville. 


168 


MOONDYNE. 


“ Five ships could not carry enough chain from Eng- 
land for such a slide” 

“ Forge it on the spot,” said Mr. Wyville. “ The 
very hills can be smelted into metal. I have had this 
in mind for some years, Mr. Sheridan, and I mean to 
attempt the work when we return. It will employ all 
the idle men in the colony.” 

Sheridan was surprised beyond words to find Mr. 
Wyville so familiar with the very scenes of his own 
labor. He hardly knew what to say about Wyville’s 
personal interest in a district which the Sandalwood 
Company had marked off and claimed as their prop- 
erty, by right of possession, though they had neglected 
Sheridan’s advice to buy or lease the land from the 
Government. 

The conversation ceased as they entered the House 
of Commons, and proceeded to the committee room, 
where sat Sir Joshua Hobb at a table, turning over a 
pile of documents, and beside him, pen in hand, Mr. 
Haggett, who took in a reef of lip as Mr. Wyville and 
Sheridan entered. 

Since Haggett’s return from Australia, three years 
before, he had adopted a peculiar manner toward Mr. 
Wyville. He treated him with respect, perhaps be- 
cause he feared him ; but when he could observe him 
without himself being seen, he never tired of looking 
at him, as if he were intently solving a problem, and 
hoped to read its deepest meaning in some possible ex- 
pression of Mr. Wyville’s face. 

On the large table lay a map of the Penal Colony 
of Western Australia. 

The Committee consisted of five average M. P.’s, 
three country gentlemen, who had not the remotest 
knowledge of penal systems, nor of any other than sys- 
tems of drainage ; and two lawyers, who asked all the 
questions, and pretended to understand the whole sub- 
ject. 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


169 


The Committee treated Sir Joshua Hobb, K. C. B., 
as a most distinguished personage, whose every word 
possessed particular gravity and value. He delivered 
a set speech against lenience to prisoners, and made a 
deep impression on the Committee. He was about to 
sit down, when Mr. Haggett laid a folded paper beside 
his hand. Sir Joshua glanced at the document, and 
resumed, in a convincing tone : — 

“ Here, gentlemen/’ he said, touching the paper re- 
peatedly with his finger, “ here is an instance of the sen- 
timental method, and its effect on a desperate criminal 
— and all those who are sent to Australia are desper- 
ate. Twenty years ago, a young man was convicted at 
York Assizes, for poaching. It was during a time of 
business depression ; the capitalists and employers 
had closed their works, and locked out their hands. 
Nothing else could be done — men cannot risk their 
money when markets are falling. During this time, 
the deer in Lord Scarborough’s park had been killed 
by the score, and a close watch was set. This man 
was caught in the night, carrying a deer on his shoul- 
ders from the park. He made a violent resistance, 
striking one of the keepers a terrible blow that felled 
him to the earth, senseless. The poacher was over- 
powered, however, and sent to prison until the 
Assizes. At his trial he pleaded defiantly that he had 
a right to the deer — that thousands were starving to 
death — men, women, and children — in the streets of 
the town ; and that God had given no man the right to 
herd hundreds of useless deer while human beings were 
dying of hunger. The ignorant and dangerous people 
who heard him cheered wildly in the court at this 
lawless speech. Gentlemen, this poacher was a des- 
perate radical, a Chartist, no doubt, who ought to have 
been severely treated. But the judge looked leniently 
on the case, because it was proved that the poacher’s 
own mother and sisters were starving. The prisoner 


170 


MOONDYNE. 


got off with one month’s imprisonment. What was 
the result of this mildness ? At the very next Assizes 
the same judge tried the same prisoner for a similar 
crime, and the audacious villain made the same de- 
fence. 4 If it were a light crime six months ago,’ he 
said to the mistaken judge, 'it is no heavier now, for 
the cause remains.’ Well, he was sentenced to ten 
years’ penal servitude, and was transported to Western 
Australia. After serving some years there, the lenient 
system again came in, and he was hired out to a settler, 
a respectable man, though an ex-convict. Three months 
afterwards, the violent Chartist attempted to murder 
his employer, and then escaped into the bush. He 
was captured, but escaped again, and was again re-cap- 
tured by the very man he had tried to murder. Mark 
the dreadful ending, gentlemen, to this series of mis- 
taken lenities to a criminal. On their way to the 
prison, the absconder broke his manacles, seized a 
pistol from a native policeman, murdered his brave 
captor, and escaped again to the bush.” 

" God bless me ! what a shocking story ! ” said one 
of the Committee. 

“ Was the fellow captured again ? ” asked one of the 
lawyers. 

“ No,” said Sir Joshua ; “ he escaped to the swamps. 
But there is a rumor among the convicts that he is 
still alive. Is there not, Mr. Haggett ? ” 

Mr. Haggett bent his head in assent. Then he 
rubbed his forehead and eyes, as if relieved of a strain. 
He had been watching the face of Mr. Wyville with 
painful eagerness as Sir Joshua spoke ; but in that im- 
passive visage no line of meaning to Haggett’s eyes 
could be traced. 

Sir Joshua sat down, confident that he could depend 
on the Committee for a report in his favor. 

“ Is there actual evidence that this convict of whom 
you spoke murdered his captor ? ” 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


171 


Mr. Wyville addressed Sir Joshua Hobb, standing 
at the end of the long green table. There was nothing 
in the words, but every one in the room felt a thrill at 
the deep sound of the resonant voice. 

The Committee, who had not looked at Mr. Wyville 
before, stared at him now in undisguised surprise. He 
was strangely powerful as he stood there alone, looking 
calmly at Sir Joshua for an answer. 

“ Evidence ? Certainly, there is evidence. The brave 
settler who captured the malefactor disappeared ; and 
the bushman from whom the convict seized the pistol 
saw him point it at the head of his captor. Is not that 
evidence enough ? ” 

“ Not for a court of justice,” quietly answered Mr. 
Wyville. 

“ Sir,” said Sir Joshua Hobb, superciliously, “ it may 
not appeal to sentimental judgments; but it carries 
conviction to reasonable minds.” 

“ It should not — for it is not true ! ” said Mr. 
Wyville, his tone somewhat deepened with earnest- 
ness. 

Sir Joshua Hobb started angrily to his feet. He 
glared at Mr. Wyville. 

“ Do you know it to be false ? ” he sternly asked. 

“Yes!” 

“ How do you know ? ” 

“ I, myself, saw the death of this man that you say 
was murdered.” 

“ You saw his death ! ” said in one breath Sir Joshua 
and the Committee. 

“Yes. He accepted a bribe from the man he had 
captured, and released him. I saw this settler after- 
wards die of thirst on the plains — I came upon him 
by accident — he died before my eyes, alone — and 
he was not murdered.” 

Sir Joshua Hobb sat down, and twisted nervously 
on his seat. Mr. Haggett looked frightened, as if he 


172 


MOONDYNE. 


had introduced an unfortunate subject for his mas- 
ter’s rise. He wrote on a slip of paper, and handed 
it to Sir Joshua, who read, and then turned to Mr. 
Wyville. 

“ What was the name of the man you saw die ? ” he 
asked. 

“ Isaac Bowman,” answered Mr. Wyville. 

Both Sir Joshua and Mr. Haggett settled down in 
their seats, having no more to say or suggest. 

“ You have lived a long time in Western Australia, 
Mr. Wyville ? ” asked one of the lawyers of the Com- 
mittee, after a surprised pause. 

“ Many years.” 

“ You are the owner of property in the Colony ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

Sir Joshua Hobb pricked up his ears, and turned 
sharply on his chair, with an insolent stare. 

“ Where does your property lie ? ” he asked. 

“ In the Yasse District,” answered Mr. Wyville. 

“ Here is a map of Western Australia,” said Sir 
Joshua Hobb, with an overbearing air ; “ will you be 
kind enough to point out to the Committee the loca- 
tion of your possessions ? ” 

There was obviously so malevolent a meaning in Sir 
Joshua Hobb’s request, that the whole Committee and 
the gentlemen present stood up to watch the map, ex- 
pecting Mr. Wyville to approach. But he did not 
move. 

“ My boundaries are easily traced,” he said, from his 
place at the end of the table ; “ the northern and 
southern limits are the 33d and 34th parallels of lati- 
tude, and the eastern and western boundaries are the 
115th and 116th of longitude.” 

One of the Committee followed with his finger the 
amazing outline, after Mr. Wyville had spoken. There 
was deep silence for a time, followed by long breaths 
of surprise. 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 173 

* All the land within those lines is your — estate?” 
diffidently asked one of the country gentlemen. 

Mr. Wyville gravely bowed. 

“ Estate ! ” said one of the lawyers in a low tone, 
when he had summed up the extent in square miles ; 
“ it is a Principality ! ” 

“ From whom did you purchase this land ? ” asked 
Sir J oshua, but in an altered tone. 

“ From the Queen ! ” said Mr. Wyville, without 
moving a muscle of his impressive face. 

“ Directly from Her Majesty ? ” 

“ I received my deeds through the Colonial Office,” 
answered Mr. Wyville, with a quiet motion of the 
hand toward Lord Somers. 

The Colonial Secretary, seeing the eyes of all pres- 
ent turned upon him, bowed to the Committee in 
corroboration. 

“ The deeds of Mr. Wyville’s estate, outlined as he 
has stated, passed through the Colonial Office, directly 
from her Majesty the Queen,” said Lord Somers, in a 
formal manner. 

The Committee sat silent for several moments, evi- 
dently dazed at the unexpected issue of their investi- 
gations. Mr. Wyville was the first to speak. 

“ I ask to have those prison records corrected, and 
at once, Sir Joshua Hobb,” he said slowly. “ It must 
not stand that the convict of whom you spoke was a 
murderer.” 

“ By all means. Have the records corrected imme- 
diately,” said the Committee, who began to look 
askance at Sir Joshua Hobb. 

Mr. Wyville then addressed the Committee, in fa- 
vor of the new and humane penal bill. Whether it 
was his arguments, or the remembrance of his princely 
estate that worked in his favor, certain it was that 
when he had concluded the Committee was unani- 
mously in his favor. 


174 


MOONDYNE. 


“ Mr. Wyville,” said the chairman, before they ad- 
journed, we are of one mind — that the Bill reported 
by the Government should be adopted by the House ; 
and we shall so report. Good-day, gentlemen.” 

Sir Joshua Hobb rapidly withdrew, coldly bowing. 
He was closely followed by Haggett. 

Lord Somers, Hamerton, and Mr. Wyville were 
speaking together, while Sheridan, who was attentively 
studying the map, suddenly startled the others by an 
excited exclamation. 

“ Hello ! ” said Hamerton, “ has Sir Joshua dropped 
a hornet for you, too ? ” 

“ Mr. Wyville, this is terrible ! ” cried Sheridan, 
strangely moved. “ Those lines of your property 
cover every acre of our sandalwood land ! ” 

“ Ah — ha ! ” ejaculated Hamerton. 

“ I thought this land was ours,” continued Sheridan, 
in great distress of mind. “How long has it been 
yours ? ” 

“ Ten years,” said Mr. Wyville. 

Sheridan sank nerveless into a seat. The strong 
frame that could brave and bear the severest strains of 
labor and care, was subdued in one instant by this 
overwhelming discovery. 

He had been cutting sandalwood for nine years on 
this man’s land. Every farthing he had made for his 
company and himself belonged in common honesty 
to another ! 

Mr. Wyville, who was not surprised, but had evidently 
expected this moment, walked over to Sheridan, and 
laid a strong hand on his shoulder, expressing more 
kindness and affection in the manly force and silence 
of the act than could possibly have been spoken in 
words. Sheridan felt the impulse precisely as it was 
meant. 

“The land was yours,” Mr. Wyville said after a 
pause ; “ for I had made no claim. I knew of your 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


175 


work, and I gave you no warning. According to the 
law of the Colony, and of higher law, you have acted 
right.” 

Sheridan’s face brightened. To him personally his 
success had brought little to covet ; but he was sensi- 
tive to the core at the thought of trouble and great 
loss to the Company, caused under his supervision. 

“We return to Australia together, Mr. Sheridan,” 
said Wyville, holding Out his hand ; “ and I think, some- 
how, we shall neither of us leave it again. The vigor 
of your past life shall be as nothing to that which the 
future shall evoke. Shall we not work together ? ” 

Swift tears of pleasure rushed to Sheridan’s eyes 
at the earnest and unexpected words ; and the look 
that passed between the two men as they clasped 
hands was of brief but beautiful intensity. 

“ Well, Hamerton ? ” asked Lord Somers, smiling, as 
if astonished beyond further speech. 

“Well? What of it ? I suppose you call this 
strange,” said Hamerton. 

“ You don’t ? ” asked the Secretary. 

“ No, I don’t,” said Hamerton, rising from his chair. 
“ I call it utter commonplace — for these Australians 
— the most prosaic set of events I have yet seen them 
indulge in. I begin to realize the meaning of the 
Antipodes : their common ways are our extraordinary 
ones — and they don’t seem to have any uncommon 
ones.” 


II. 

HARRIET DRAPER. 

Four years had passed since Mr. Wyville’s visit to 
Walton-le-Dale ; and he had heard no word of the 
woman he had then sought. 


176 


MOONDYNE. 


During this time the case of Alice Walmsley had 
grown to be a subject of rare interest to this student 
of humanity. Scarcely a day had passed in all that 
time that he had not devoted some moments to think- 
ing on the innocent prisoner, and devising some al- 
lowable means of affording her comfort and pleasure. 

Perhaps the secret of his special observance of this 
case arose from the fact that beneath the self-imposed 
suffering he beheld the golden idea. To him this 
peaceful and silent adherence to a principle was a 
source of constant interest. 

In all those years, Alice Walmsley had never heard 
his name, and had only once seen his interference. 
The memory of the strong dark face that had then 
interposed to save her, and the look of kind compas- 
sion, were treasured in her heart ; but she knew no 
more than this. Sister Cecilia, perhaps, would have 
told her who this powerful man was ; but she shrank 
from asking, and she never asked. 

About a week after the event in the Committee 
Room, Mr. Wyville, sitting with Sheridan and Hamer- 
ton in his study, received a letter, brought from Scot- 
land Yard by a policeman. 

As usual with the group, when not conversing, 
Sheridan read, and Hamerton lounged. 

Mr. Wyville started from his seat with an exclama- 
tion, when he had read the letter. He rarely betrayed 
even the slightest excitement; and Mr. Hamerton 
would not have been more surprised had a bomb ex- 
ploded under the table than he was to see Mr. Wyville 
thrown off his balance so unexpectedly and completely. 
Hamerton, however, had too profound a respect for 
his friend to speak his astonishment. 

“Thanks, kind and simple heart!” exclaimed Mr. 
Wyville, holding the letter before him. “You have 
been faithful to your word for four years ; and you 
shall rejoice for it all your life ! ” 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 177 

Then, recollecting himself, he smiled in his grave 
way and said, — 

“ I have received long-expected news. I have found 
something I sought. To-night, I must leave London 
for a few days ; so I must say good-by, now.” 

“ Are you leaving England, too ? ” asked Hamerton. 

“ No ; I go only to Lancashire — to a little village 
called Walton-le-Dale.” He turned to his desk, and 
was busily arranging his papers. 

“ Why, what ’s the matter, Sheridan ? You are 
growing nervous of late.” 

“The name of the village took me by surprise, that 
is all,” said Will. He was going on to say that Wal- 
ton was his native village ; but the entrance of Lord 
Somers temporarily changed the subject. Before it 
could be resumed, Mr. Wyville had said “ Good-by,” 
and the gentlemen took their leave. 

The letter which Mr. Wyville had received ran as 
follows : — 

“ Sir, — The woman Harriet Draper, as was Samuel Draper’s 
wife before he married Alice Walmsley, has been arrested for a 
dedly assawlt on Draper’s sister and is at this present riteing in 
the lock-up of Walton-le-Dale. — Your umbel servant, 

“ Benjamin Lodge, Police Officer.” 

Accompanied by his black servant, Mr. Wyville left 
London that evening ; and on the forenoon of the next 
day he stepped from the train at Walton-le-Dale, and 
walked toward the police-station or lock-up. 

It was a small stone building, containing four rooms, 
two of which were Officer Lodge’s quarters ; the third 
a court-room, with a dock or bar, and a raised desk and 
seat for the magistrate ; and behind this, and opening 
from it, a strong room, with barred windows, used as 
the lock-up. 

Mr. Wyville pushed the outer door, and stepped at 
once into the court-room, which was empty. He was 
about to withdraw, when a door on the left opened, 
12 


178 


MOONDYNE. 


and Officer Lodge, quite unchanged in fpur years, 
greeted Mr. Wy ville, as if he had seen him only yester- 
day. # 

“ She was out of horder had, this time, sir ; hut I 
knew she ’d turn up some time.” 

“ Many thanks, my friend,” said Mr. Wyville ; “ I 
had almost concluded you had forgotten.” 

Officer Lodge was a little hurt at this expression of 
doubt ; but he was quite too mild of temper for resent • 
ment. 

“Where is the woman ? ” asked Mr. Wyville. 

Officer Lodge pointed to the heavy door of the lock- 
up, with a grim shake of the head. He sank his 
voice to a whisper. 

“ She ’s a bad ’un, she is — worse and worse hevery 
time. But now she ’s done for.” 

“ Done for ? ” 

“ Ay, she 11 go, this time, sir. Seven year at the 
least. She nearly killed a woman, and she would 
have killed her altogether if she’d had her way a 
minute longer.” 

“ Tell me the facts,” said Mr. Wyville. 

“Well, sir, she were down near Draper’s ’ouse all 
one day, last week, and she hacted queer. They 
came for me and told me, and I looked after her all 
the hafternoon. But she were doing no harm to no- 
body. She only sat on the roadside, looking at 
Draper’s ’ouse. Toward evening she went into Mrs. 
Walmsley’s old ’ouse, wich is hopen, and she stayed 
there an hour. Draper’s sister, who was too curious, 
maybe, went up to the ’ouse, to see what she were 
doing ; and then it began. I heerd two voices, one 
a’ screaming and the tother swearing, and when I ran 
to the spot, I sees Harriet assaulting the woman, 
choking her and beating her head against the stones. 
If I had been half a minute later, there would have 
been murder.” 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 179 

“ Does the prisoner speak to any one ? ” asked Mr. 
Wyville. 

“ No ; there ’s no one to speak to her hut me ; and 
she never hopens her lips to me.” 

“ Can I see her, and speak with her ? ” 

“Yessir,” said Officer Lodge; “but be careful — . 
she’s not safe.” 

Officer Lodge carefully locked the outer door, and 
then approached the lock-up. He knocked on the 
door heavily with the key, as if to rouse the prisoner. 
No sound came from within. He turned the key in 
the lock, and opened the door. 

Mr. Wyville entered the lock-up, which was a room 
about twelve feet square, with one window. A wooden 
bench ran round three sides of the room, and in the 
farther corner, upon the bench, was something like a 
heap of clothes. 

It was the prisoner, who sat upon the bench, her 
back to the wall, her knees drawn up, and her face 
sunk upon them. A tattered shawl covered her, so that 
she presented the appearance of a heap of wretched 
clothes. 

She did not move as the door opened, nor for a 
minute afterwards. But as some one had entered, and 
the door had not been closed, she became aware of the 
intrusion. She raised her head, and looked around 
on the floor, slowly, till her glance fell on Mr. Wy- 
ville’s feet. Then she raised her eyes, till they rested 
on his face. 

She seemed to have been in a sort of daze or waking 
dream. She did not take her eyes away, but looked at 
the strange face before her as if she were not yet 
awake. 

She was a woful wreck of womanhood. Her eyes 
had cavernous circles around them, and her cheeks were 
sunken, as if with consuming disease. Her hair, un- 
kempt, was covered with the old shawl, . but its 


180 


MOONDYNE. 


straggling locks fell across her forehead. As she looked 
at Mr. Wyville, some remnant of womanly feeling 
stirred within her, and she raised a wasted hand and 
pressed backward the tangled hair from each side ot 
her face. 

Wretched as she was, and lost, there was something 
beneath all the stains that spoke of a face once comely 
and soft and lovable. 

“ Harriet Draper ! ” said Mr. Wyville, with unusual 
emotion in his deep voice, and speaking in a subdued 
tone. 

She moved uneasily at the name, and her large eyes 
grew fearfully bright. 

“ Harriet Draper, I have been searching for you 
many years. May God pardon the man whose crime 
sent you here ! ” 

“ Ach ! ” gasped the woman, suddenly burying her 
face again, as if she had been stabbed in the breast. 
Then she started, and sprang to the floor, and put her 
hands on her eyes. 

“ 0 God ! what did he say ? ” she hoarsely whispered, 
as if speaking to herself ; “ 0 God ! God ! to pardon 
him, and not me ! ” 

She took away her hands, and looked severely for a 
moment at Mr. Wyville. He met her gaze with a 
severity greater than her own. 

" Yes ; God pardon him, for through him you have 
been made guilty,” he said. 

“ Who are you ? ” she cried, becoming excited. 
" Who are you that pretend to know me ? No man 
made me commit crime. You lie ! you lie ! you don’t 
know me — you don’t know him ! ” 

Her voice became high with excitement, and her 
eyes blazed, as with frenzy. 

“ Harriet Draper, I know you and I know him — 
your guilty husband. I have searched for you for 
years, to ask you to lighten your soul of one grievous 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


181 


crime. Before long, you will need repentance ; for 
your health is broken, and you cannot die with this 
terrible burden on your conscience.” 

“ What — what are you talking about ? ” she cried, 
still fiercely, but in a lower tone. “ What have I 
done ? ” 

“ You have committed murder ! ” 

She looked at him without a word, and increased 
the pitiful fixity of her gaze by raising her hands to 
press her temples, as if to keep down pain. 

“ You murdered Alice Walmsley’s child ! ” 

Her eyes closed, and she grasped at her breast with 
both hands, and tottered backward, sinking on the 
bench with a long moan. 

“ You killed the child, and you saw the innocent 
mother dragged to prison for your crime. You have 
remained silent for nine years, and destroyed your own 
life, while she has borne your punishment. You shall 
now confess, and save her who has suffered so much 
to save you.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ” screamed the woman, in a 
laugh so sudden and hellish, that Mr. Wyville stepped 
back appalled. He had expected a different result. 
Again and again the horrid laugh rang through the 
place, till it had exhausted the strength of the ferocious 
and most miserable being who uttered it, and she 
sank heavily on the bench. 

“ Save her ! ” she cried at length, clenching her hands, 
and shaking them over her head. “ Ha ! ha ! save her ! 
Save the false woman that sent me here ! Never ! I 
hate her! She brought her suffering on herself by 
stealing my husband — he was only a fool in her 
hands ! ” 

She rocked herself to and fro for a time, and then 
cried wildly, — 

“ Why should I forgive her ? Why should I save 
her ? Am I to bear all the misery she made ? He was 


182 


MOONDYNE. 


my husband, and he loved me, till she made him 
false!” 

Here she became wildly excited, almost screaming 
her words. 

“ If she were free to-day, she would seek him out, 
and go back to him. Why should I save her to do 
that ? Begone ! I will not ! I know nothing about 
her. I would rather die than speak a word to save 
her!” 

A fit of coughing, that almost convulsed the miser- 
able frame, now seized the woman ; and when it had 
passed she sank back against the wall, exhausted. 

Mr. Wyville remained silent ; he feared that more 
excitement might affect her reason, or her life. He 
looked down upon the unfortunate being with profound 
pity. He had expected a depraved and selfish nature, 
shrinking from confession through selfish fear. He 
saw, instead, a woman’s heart, criminal through its 
own love and truth, and cruelly unjust through jealousy 
of its rival. 

Darkest and saddest of human sights — the good 
tortured from its straight course until it actually had 
become evil ; the angelic quality in a heart warped by 
deceit and wrong until it had become the fiendish part. 
• “ 0, man, man ! ” murmured Mr. Wyville, as he 
looked upon the wreck, but only saw the evil-doer 
beyond her, “ your sin is deeper than the sea. Not 
here, not here must I seek to right the wrong.” 

He walked from the place with bowed head. Officer 
Lodge, without speaking, locked the door, and followed 
him. Mr. Wyville sat down in the court-room, and 
after a long pause, said to Officer Lodge, — 

“ Has this man, Draper, ever been here — since the 
crime was committed ? ” 

“ No, sir, he hasn’t never been seen ; but they say as 
he has been here ; that he came in the night to his own 
folks once. He can’t never live in Walton, sir.” 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


183 


“ Has he been outlawed ? ” 

“ Ho, sir, there was no one to go again’ him. The 
law let him pass ; hut the people couldn’t stomach 
him — though they never thought he was as bad as 
this.’’ 

“ You have heard, then, what I have said to this 
woman ? It will do no good to speak about it. She 
has made no confession — nor will she confess till the 
hand of death is upon her. When is she to be tried 
for this last offence ? ” 

“ In two weeks, sir ; and she ’ll get at least seven 
years.” 

“Well, my kind friend, remember she has been 
cruelly wronged ; and so long as she is in your charge, 
treat her with mercy. She is not the author of her 
crime and wretchedness.” 

Officer Lodge promised to be kind, though his heart 
overflowed w T hen he thought of poor Alice Walmsley 
and her great wrong. He also promised to send by 
mail to Mr. Wyville a report of Harriet Draper’s 
sentence. 

Mr. Wyville thanked him, but offered no reward. 

“ I shall see you again before long,” he said, as he left 
the little court-room. His journey to London that night 
was mainly consumed in reflection on the tangled web 
of crime and injustice in which he had become so 
deeply interested. 

Two days later, Mr. Wyville sat in the office of the 
governor of Millbank, relating to him the story of 
Harriet Draper and Alice Walmsley. 

“ Good heavens ! ” cried the kind old governor ; “ the 
case must be brought at once before the Directors.” 

“Ho,” said Mr. Wyville, “ not yet — and not at any 
time before them. Kelease cannot right the wrong of 
this injured woman. She must be cleared by the con- 
fession of the criminal — and then we shall send her 
case to the Queen.” 


184 


MOONDYNE. 


“ Well,” said the governor, “ but how are you to get 
the confession?” 

“This woman, Harriet Draper, will come to Mill- 
bank within two weeks. If she does not confess be- 
fore the convict ship sails, she must be sent to Western 
Australia next month.” 

“We never send convicts in their first year,” said 
the governor. 

“ She must go, ” said Mr. Wyville, warmly ; “ break 
your rule for the sake of justice.” 

“ I ’ll break it for your sake, Mr. Wyville,” said the 
governor. “ I shall put her name on the roll.” 

“ And she must be kept aloof from the others. Can 
this be done ? ” 

“ Yes ; we can enter her on the hospital list, and 
send her before the others to the ship. She will be 
confined on board in the hospital.” 

Mr. Wyville held out his hand to the governor. 

“ I thank you sincerely,” he said ; “I am deeply in- 
terested in this case.” 

When he had gone, the bluff old major walked up 
and down his office, and mopped his head with his big 
handkerchief. 

“ It ’s like good health and a good conscience to come 
near that man,” he said to himself. “ How strange it 
is that he should have such deadly enemies ! ” 


III. 

A CAPTAIN FOR THE HOUGUEMONT. 

In Mr. Wyville’s house, in the library or study, sat 
Mr. Hamerton. He had been writing for hours. On 
the table beside him. lay a heap of documents, with 
large red seals, like title-deeds ; and in another heap 
lay a number of letters, addressed and stamped. 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


185 


Mr. Wyville entered, and they talked for some min- 
utes in a serious vein. It was evident that Mr. Ham- 
erton was engaged in some more important business 
than usual, and that he had advised with Mr. Wyville 
during its progress. 

Lord Somers called, as usual, on his way to the 
Department ; and shortly afterward Sheridan arrived. 
Mr. Hamerton continued to write, and a cursory con- 
versation began, the gentlemen glancing at the morning 
papers. 

An exclamation from Lord Somers broke the com- 
monplace. 

“ Hello ! What the -deuce ! Why, Hamerton, this 
must be your place. Are you going to sell Broadwood ? ” 

“Yes,” said Hamerton, and he went on with his 
writing. 

“ The whole estate and manor house ? ” asked the 
peer, in plain astonishment. 

“ The whole thing,” said Hamerton, in the same 
prosaic tone. 

Will Sheridan took the paper, and read the adver- 
tisement : Magnificent and historic demesne and manor 
house of Broadwood — 400 acres of rich land — entire 
village of Broadwood — valuable church living — an- 
tique furniture, pictures, armor, etc., — in a word, the 
entire surroundings of an English aristocrat of the first 
standing, advertised in the daily papers to be sold by 
auction, not as a whole, but in lots. 

“ What do you mean by that ? ” asked Lord Somers ; 
“ why not sell the right to one purchaser ? ” 

“ Because he couldn’t buy it,” answered the stolid 
Hamerton, who was in a mood for apothegms. 

“ What ! you want too much money for it ? ” 

“Ho, I do not.” 

“Come, come, Hamerton — this is unkind. Your 
place is close to mine, and I am naturally interested, 
independent of my sincere interest in your affairs.” 


186 


MOONDYNE. 


“ Well, you spoke of buying the right. Now, Somers, 
no one man could buy or hold the right to so much 
land as Broadwood, in this populous and poverty- 
stricken country — yes, poverty-stricken — there are 
only a few rich people. Eighty out of every hundred 
are miserably poor. The best a rich man could do 
would be to buy the title-deeds; but the abstract 
right of ownership would remain with the farmers who 
tilled the land.” 

“ I don’t understand you,” said Lord Somers. 

“I propose to sell the deeds to the men who already 
hold the land by right.” 

“ You will break up Broadwood, and sell it to your 
farmers ? ” 

“I win.” 

Lord Somers was seriously affected by this ex- 
traordinary announcement; but he knew Hamerton 
too well to remonstrate or argue. 

Mr. Wyville, looking across his paper, observed both 
speakers, and listened to the conversation, evidently 
pleased. 

“You will be no nearer to your republican idea 
when this is done,” said Lord Somers, at length ; “ you 
will have sold the land ; but the money it brings has 
not been earned by you.” 

“ Quite true,” answered Hamerton. 

“ Why keep it, then ? ” 

“ I shall not keep it.” 

“Why, Hamerton — what do you mean? What 
will you do with it ? ” 

“ I shall invest it in schools and a library for the 
people of that section ‘ for ever,’ as the lawyers say. 
Mr. Wyville and I have been looking at the matter, 
and we think this money will establish a school with 
three technical branches — chemistry, engineering, and 
agriculture. 

“ And you ? will you teach in the schools for a living?” 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


187 


‘ Oh no ; I am going to Australia.” 

“ To Australia ! ” said Lord Somers and Sheridan in 
a breath. Then Sheridan asked, — 

“ Are you going to settle there ? ” 

“ Yes ; I am tired of Europe. I shall never return 
here.” 

“ I am glad,” cried Sheridan, starting up and seizing 
Hamerton’s hand. “ Australia is going to send out the 
largest-hearted men that ever owned the earth. You 
will be at home there. You will breathe freely in its 
splendid air. Oh, I am proud to see such men turn 
by nature to the magnificent South ! ” 

Mr. Wyville had approached the table with a look 
of intense pleasure. He laid his hand almost caress- 
ingly on Will Sheridan’s shoulder. As they were 
placed, these three men — Wyville, Sheridan, and 
Hamerton — they formed a remarkable group. 

“You are dangerous company,” said Lord Somers, 
looking at them with admiration. “ You almost tempt 
me to follow you, or go with you, to Australia. When 
do you sail ? ” 

“ Mr. Sheridan and I will sail on the convict ship 
in three weeks,” said Mr. Wyville. “ Mr. Hamerton 
will take my steam-yacht, and follow when he has 
settled his plans — perhaps a week later.” 

“ I am dumbfounded,” said Lord Somers. “ I can- 
not speak on this new thing. I only foresee that I 
shall be very lonely, indeed, in London when you 
have gone.” 

After some further conversation on this point, Mr. 
Wyville changed the subject. 

“ You have engaged a captain for the convict 
ship ? ” he said to Lord Somers. 

“Yes; Captain Rogers, late of the P. & 0. Com- 
pany’s service.” 

“ You were not aware that I wished to engage him 
for my yacht ? ” said Wyville. 


188 


MOONDYNE. 


“ No ; I should be sorry to take him from you. But 
his articles are signed now, and good commanders for 
such a service are not easily found.” 

“ If I find you a suitable captain, and guarantee his 
command, will you oblige me by cancelling Captain 
Rogers’s commission ? ” 

“ Certainly — if you give him, instead, the command 
of your steamer:” 

“ Thank you ; that is my intention.” 

“ But have you found another captain for the con- 
vict ship ? ” asked Lord Somers. 

“ Yes — I have been looking into the matter with the 
view of saving you further trouble. I have settled oil 
a man who is classed as a first-rate master-mariner and 
commander, and who is now in London, disengaged.” 

“ I shall make a note of it,” said Lord Somers, taking 
out his pocket-book. “ What is his name ? ” 

“ Draper,” said Mr. Wyville ; “ Captain Samuel 
Draper.” 

“ That will do,” said the Secretary. “ I shall have 
new articles made out. Will you see to it that he is 
engaged at once, and sent to the ship at Portland ? ” 

“ Certainly. I shall attend to it to-day.” 

Mr. Hamerton and Sheridan, who had been talking 
together, at the other end of the room, now approached, 
and the conversation became general. Soon after, 
Lord Somers said “ Good-morning,” and proceeded to 
his Department. 


IV. 

CAPTAIN SAMUEL DRAPER. 

In the inner office of Lloyd’s great shipping agency, 
in London, on the day following Mr. Wyville’s conver- 
sation with Lord Somers, the former gentleman sat, 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


189 


while one of the clerks in the office brought him 
books and documents. 

“ This completes Captain Draper’s record,” said the 
clerk, handing a paper to Mr. Wyville. “ It is from 
his last ship.” 

“Thanks. Now, can you give me his address in 
London ? ” 

“ Yes ; No. 37 Horton Street, East.” 

Mr. Wyviile left the office, and the clerk collected 
his papers, from which the visitor had taken notes. 

Mr. Wyville hailed a cab, and said to the driver, 
“ Horton Street.” It was a long way off, and during 
the slow progress through the crowded streets, Mr. 
Wyville examined his notes, and arranged them care- 
fully in a certain order. At last the cab stopped. 

“ What number ? ” asked the driver. 

“ I shall get out here,” said Mr. Wyville. “ But 
you may wait for me — say half an hour.” 

He walked down the quiet little street, with its uni- 
form brick houses, green blinds, and white curtains. 
It was a street of comfortable residences of small busi- 
ness men and well-to-do mechanics. ' Number 37 was 
in no way different from the neighboring houses. 

Mr. Wyville rang the bell, and an old lady, with 
glasses pushed up to her forehead, and a piece of sew- 
ing in her hand, opened the door, and looked inquir- 
ingly at the caller. 

“ Does Captain Draper live here ? ” he asked. 

“ Yes, sir ; but he is out at present,” said the intel- 
ligent old lady. 

“ I am sorry ; I will call again,” said Mr. Wyville, 
turning to go. 

“ He will be in soon,” said the old lady ; “ he comes 
in to dinner always.” 

“ Then I shall wait, if you please,” said Mr. Wyville, 
and he entered the house, and sat down in a comfort- 
able little parlor, while the old woman, drawing down 
her glasses, went on with her sewing. 


190 


MOONDYNE. 


“ Captain Draper is my grand-nephew,” said she, 
after a silent interval. 

“ Indeed ! ” said Mr. Wyville. “ Then you will he 
pleased to know that I come to offer him a good com- 
mand.” 

“ Oh, I am delighted ! ” said the old lady ; “ he is so 
good, so conscientious. I always said as Samuel would 
come to something ’igh. He has been waiting for a 
ship for nearly a year. I know he doesn’t please his 
owners, because he is too conscientious.” 

“ You will also be pleased to hear, madam, that his 
owners this time will be quite conscientious, too.” 

“ I am so delighted ! ” said Captain Draper’s grand- 
aunt. 

At this moment, the outer door opened, and imme- 
diately after Captain Draper entered the room. It was 
rather a chilly day, and he had buttoned his coat close 
up to his throat. He was not a robust figure — rather 
slim, and bent forward. The past ten years had laid a 
strong hand on him. The charm of his younger man- 
hood, the boisterous laugh and hearty manner of wav- 
ing his hand, was much lessened ; but the cold 
watchfulness of his prominent blue eyes was propor- 
tionately increased. 

He had a long and narrow face, thin jaws, covered 
with faded side-whiskers, worn rather long. His up- 
per lip and chin were shaven, showing his wide mouth. 
His lips were dry, as of old, but now they were bluer, 
and more offensively cracked. On the whole, he was 
a decent-looking man in outward appearance ; as he 
walked rapidly through the streets, with shoulders bent 
forward, one would say he was a consumptive hurry- 
ing home. But there was a compression of the mouth, 
accompanied with a quick watchfulness of eye, and an 
ugly sneer in the muscles of the nose, that would make 
his face detestable to any one who had the power of 
rapidly perceiving character. 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


191 


Mr. Wyville read the face as easily as it it were a 
printed page. 

“ Captain Draper, I presume ? ” 

“ That is my name,” said the other, with a wide and 
unmeaning smile of the cracked lips, in which the rest 
of the face took no part. 

“ I have come from the Treasury, to offer you com- 
mand of a vessel in the service of the Government.” 

“Ah — that’s good. In what branch of the ser- 
vice, may I ask ? ” 

“ Transport,” said Mr. Wyville. 

“ Troops, I suppose ? ” said Draper, still smiling. 

“ Ho ; convicts.” 

Captain Draper placed a chair so as to see Mr. Wy- 
ville’s face in the light. As he took his seat he had 
ceased to smile. 

“ Ah ! — convicts. Where are they going ? ” 

“ Western Australia.” 

Captain Draper remained silent so long that Mr. 
Wyville spoke again. 

“You are willing to take such a vessel, are you 
not ? ” 

“Well, I want a ship — but these convict ships I 
don’t like ; I don’t want to Are they male con- 

victs ? ” he asked, interrupting himself. 

“Yes, mainly; there will be three hundred men, 
and only fifty female convicts on board.” 

“Fifty.” Draper stood up and walked across the 
room to the mantel-piece. He leant his elbow on it 
for a time ; then he took up a little glass ornament in 
an absent-minded and nervous way. 

Mr. Wyville sat silently watching him. As Draper 
raised the piece of glass, his hand trembled and his 
face worked. He dropped the glass to the floor, and 
it w^as shattered to pieces. This recalled him. He 
smiled at first, then he laughed aloud, his eyes watch- 
ing Mr. Wyville. 


192 


MOONDYNE. 


“Well — I don’t want that ship,” he said; “I don’t 
like convicts.” 

“ I am sorry,” said Mr. Wy ville, rising ; “ you were 
highly recommended, Captain Draper ; and as the 
duty is considered onerous, the voyage will be quite 
remunerative for the commander.” 

Draper’s cupidity was excited, and he seemed to 
hesitate. 

“ Do you know anything about these convicts ? ” he 
asked. 

“ Yes ; what do you wish to know ? ” 

“ How long have they been in prison ? ” 

“ On an average, about three years.” 

“ Three years ; did you ever know any to be sent 
after nine or ten years ? ” 

“ No ; not one such case has occurred for the past 
twenty years. It would be very unusual.” 

“ Yes ; well, you know, I don’t care about them — 
but I have a curiosity. I suppose they ’re all right — 
all about three years, eh ? ” 

“ That will be the average, certainly.” 

“ Well, I think I ’ll take the ship. Where does she 
lie, and when is she to sail ? ” 

Mr. Wyville gave him all the particulars; and 
when his questions ceased Mr. Wyville drew out a set 
of articles to be signed. 

“ You came prepared, eh ? ” said Draper. 

“ Yes ; ” said Mr. Wyville, gravely reading over the 
form. “We were anxious to secure your services, and 
I thought it just as well to save time. Please sign 
your name here — and here. Thank you. Now I 
shall say good-day, Captain Draper.” 

“ The ship is ready, you say ? ” said Draper, follow- 
ing him to the door; “then I am expected to take 
command at once,- 1 suppose ? ” 

“No; not until the day of sailing. Your officers 
will see to the preparations for sailing. At two 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


193 


o’clock, p. m., on the 10th, you will take command, 
and sail.” 

“Well,” said Draper; and as he looked after the 
strong figure of Wyville, he muttered to himself: 
“Well — just as well; they only average three years. 
But I ’d rather go on board at once, and see them be- 
fore we sail.” 


V. 

KORO AND TEPAIRU. 

“ Now,” said Mr. Wyville, communing with himself, 
as he walked from Draper’s house, and entered his cab 
at the end of Horton Street, “ the elements are mov- 
ing. May good influences direct them.” 

At his own house, he dismissed the cab, and, enter- 
ing, with unusual gravity greeted Mr. Hamerton, who 
was awaiting him. 

“ You said in your note that you had an important 
business communication to make to me,” said Hamer- 
ton, without appearing to notice Wyville’s mental 
disturbance. 

Mr. Wyville did not answer, but paced the room to 
and fro slowly, sunk in deep thought, his arms crossed 
on his breast. 

“These results may follow,” he said at length, 
evidently thinking aloud; “but there is need of an 
intelligence to make them inevitable. Mr. Hamer- 
ton,” he said, stopping before his friend, and fixing his 
eyes upon him, “ I have a trust to offer you that in- 
volves a heavy responsibility. Will you undertake it, 
for my sake, and, in case of what may come, carry out 
my desire to the letter?” 

“ If it lie in my power, I will. If it lie beyond me, 
I will do my best to the end,” answered Hamerton. 

13 


194 


MOONDYNE. 


"Yes, I am sure of it. I am very grateful.” Mr. 
Wyville took his hand, and pressed it warmly, with 
still the same grave look. He then went to a small 
but massive iron safe in the room, opened it, and from 
a drawer took two large sealed packets. 

“ Here,” he said, “ are two envelopes that contain all 
my wishes and all my power. They are mine, so long 
as I am alive, with freedom to control my actions. 
Please remember well my words. In case of my 
death or disappearance, or — other event to impede 
my action for those who depend on me, these packets 
belong to you, to open, and read.” 

“ Have you written full instructions therein which I 
am to follow ? ” asked Hamerton. 

“ Ho ; I will not instruct you, because I trust you 
as I would my own soul. You will understand, when 
you have read ; and you will act for the best. Do 
you promise me this ? ” 

“ I do, most solemnly ; hut, Mr. Wyville, suppose I 
should be unable — suppose I should die before your 
trust were carried out — is there any one else to whom 
I may transfer the duty ? ” 

“ Yes ; to Sheridan.” 

Mr. Wyville locked the safe, and handed the key to 
Hamerton. 

“ I shall send the safe to the yacht before we sail,” 
he said. “ How let us inform the children.” 

Mr. Wyville struck a bell, and Ngarra-jil silently 
entered. A word in his own language from his master 
sent him out as quickly. In a few minutes, Mr. 
Wyville and Mr. Hamerton went upstairs and en- 
tered a large and richly draped room, in which the 
entire furniture consisted of low and soft divans, 
lounges, cushions, and furs, the effect of which was 
very extraordinary, but very beautiful. The room 
seemed to have no occupant, as the gentlemen walked 
its length toward a deep bay-window. 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


195 


“ We — are — here ! ” said a low voice, in distinctly 
measured syllables, as a diffident child might slowly 
strike three notes of an air , and then there were two 
laughs, as clear and joyous as the sound of silver bells, 
and the light sound of hand-clapping. 

The gentlemen, smiling, turned to the draped recess, 
and there, half shaded by the curtains, peeped the 
dark, laughing faces of the Australian sisters, Koro 
and Tepairu, the grandchildren of Te-mana-roa, the 
King of the Yasse. 

That Mr. Hamerton had become familiar to the 
girls was evident from their natural and unrestrained 
conduct. 

A residence of several years in a northern climate 
had arrested in the sisters the immature development 
so common in warm countries. They had matured 
slowly; and while preserving all that was charming 
and natural of their woodland graces, the restraint of 
another and a gentler mode of life covered them like a 
delicate robe. They were so outlandish and beautiful, 
in their strange and beautiful room, that they might 
be mistaken for rare bronzes, were it not for their 
flashing eyes and curving lips. 

As they sat in the curtained recess, greeting the 
gentlemen with a joyous laugh, there entered the 
room a very old Australian woman, followed by two 
young men, bearing trays with several dishes. These 
were set down on a low square divan. The old 
woman removed the covers, and with quick, short 
words directed the black men to place cushions around 
the divan. 

The sisters, Koro and Tepairu, came from their se- 
clusion, speaking in their own rapid tongue both to 
the old woman and to Mr. Wyville. They took each 
a corner of the divan, seating themselves on the cush- 
ions placed on the floor, Mr. Wyville and Hamerton 
taking the opposite comers. 


196 


MOONDYNE. 


The food, to which each helped himself, was a 
savory meal of boiled rice, yams, and rich stews, of 
which the Australians are very fond ; and, following 
these dishes, a varied supply of delicious fruit, among 
which were mangoes, guavas, and the ambrosial mun- 
gyte or honey-stalk of Western Australia. 

The conversation during the meal was wholly in 
the language of the sisters, so that Mr. Hamerton re- 
mained silent. Koro and Tepairu had evidently been 
studying English ; but they could by no means con- 
verse in the strange tongue. 

As if instinctively aware that something unforeseen 
was about to happen, Tepairu, the younger but braver 
of the sisters, had asked Mr. Wyville to speak. 

“ You are soon to leave this cold country,” he said, 
in their tongue, looking from sister to sister ; “ and re- 
turn to your own beautiful Vasse.” 

The girls answered, as if they were a single thing of 
nature, by a silent and inquiring look. It was hard 
to read either pleasure or pain in their faces, or any- 
thing but surprise ; yet a close observer would have 
discerned a subtending line akin to doubt or fear. 

“Are you not glad?” asked Mr. Wyville, with a 
smile of astonishment at their silence. 

“Yes,” they softly answered, in one breath, after a 
pause, but not joyously. “ Yes ; we shall see the good 
Te-mana-roa, and we shall find the emu’s nests on the 
mountain. We are very glad.” 

The old woman, who had remained in the room, 
chuckled audibly, and, when the others looked round 
at her, laughed outright in uncontrollable joy at the 
thought of returning to her beloved life of freedom 
in the forest. More rapidly than a skilled musician 
could evoke notes, she ran from treble to bass in volu- 
ble gratitude and benediction. Then she slid off to 
carry the joyous word to the other dusky members of 
this extraordinary household. 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


197 


“ You will be happy in your old home in the yacht,” 
continued Mr. Wyville ; “ and this friend, my brother 
and yours, will take you in his care till we see Te- 
mana-roa and the Vasse.” 

As Mr. Wyville spoke, the hidden fear became plain 
in Tepairu’s face. She looked only at Mr. Wyville, her 
large deer-like eyes slowly filling with tears. Her 
sister, too, was distressed, but in a lesser degree ; and her 
eyes, instead of being fixed on Mr. Wyville, passed on 
to Hamerton, and rested 

“You are not coming with us to the Vasse?” at 
length said Tepairu, in a slow, monotonous voice. 
“ You will remain here.” 

“ No ; I, too, shall go, and even before you. But 
we voyage on different ships.” 

“Why does not your brother and ours go on the 
other ship, and let you come with us ? ” 

Mr. Wyville looked troubled at the reception of his 
news by the sisters. As Tepairu spoke, in the last 
question, his face became exceedingly grave, as if he 
could never again smile. The sisters saw the shadow, 
and were troubled also. Mr. Wyville, without looking 
at them, spoke : — 

“Children, you should trust that I will do what 
is best ; and I know the world better than you. Te- 
pairu, I am acting wisely. Koro, I am sure of your 
confidence, at least.” 

Before the words had died, Koro, with swimming 
eyes, had risen and taken Mr. Wyville’s hand, which 
she kissed, and placed upon her head. The act was 
full of affection and faith. 

Tepairu, on whom the reproof had fallen like a 
blow, sat just as before, only the light had faded from 
her eyes, and her bosom heaved visibly. Her sister 
went and sat beside her, throwing her arms round 
her, as to give comfort. Tepairu allowed the embrace, 
but did not move a muscle of face or body. 


198 


MOONDYNE. 


Mr. Wyville rose and walked to the window, glanced 
out for a moment, then, turning, looked at the sisters. 
He approached and laid his hand with inexpressible 
gentleness on Tepairu’s head, as he had done on 
Koro’s. The proud but sensitive nature yielded at the 
touch, and with one quick look of sorrow and appeal, 
she buried her face in her sister’s bosom, and sobbed 
unrestrainedly. 

The old woman, who had re-entered, began an excited 
and guttural remonstrance against this unreasoning 
grief. Mr. Wyville chose this moment to depart. He 
knew that the brief season of cloud would soon pass, 
and let the sun shine again ; that the reflection fol- 
lowing petulance is often the purer for the previous 
error. 


YI. 

THE CHILD’S GRAVE. 

p 

The Houguemont , chartered by the Government to 
carry the convicts to Western Australia, lay in Port- 
land Roads. She rode within the dark shadow of the 
gloomy cliff, upon which is built one of the greatest 
of the English imperial prisons. She was a large, 
old-fashioned merchant ship, of two thousand tons 
burden, a slow sailer, but a strong and roomy vessel. 

She was fitted in the usual way of convict ships. 
Her main deck and her lower deck were divided into 
separate compartments, the dividing walls below being 
heavy and strong bulkheads, while those on deck were 
wooden barriers about nine feet high, with side doors, 
for the passage of the sailors while working the ship. 
At each of these doors, during the entire voyage, 
stood two soldiers, with fixed bayonets on their loaded 
rifles. 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


199 


The hatch coverings opening to the lower deck, 
where the convicts were confined, were removed ; and 
around each hatchway, reaching from the upper deck, 
or roof of the convict’s room, to the lower deck or floor, 
was one immense grating, formed of strong iron bars. 
This arrangement gave plenty of air and a good deal of 
light, the only obstruction being the bars. 

Seen from below, on the convicts’ deck, every hatch- 
way stood in the centre of the ship like a great iron 
cage, with a door by which the warders entered, and a 
ladder to reach the upper deck. 

The convicts below never tired of looking upward 
through the bars, though they could see nothing above 
but the swaying ropes and sails, and at night the beau- 
tiful sky and the stars. 

In the forward and smallest compartment of the ship 
between decks lived the crew, who went up and down 
by their own hatchway. In the next, and largest com- 
partment lived the male convicts, three hundred in 
number. The central compartment was the hospital ; 
and next to this the compartment for the female con- 
victs. The after compartment between-decks was occu- 
pied by the sixty soldiers who kept guard on the ship. 

The main or upper deck was divided as follows : 
the after part, under the poop deck, was occupied 
by the staterooms for officers and passengers, and the 
richly furnished cabin dining-room. Forward of this, 
beginning at the front of the poop, was a division of the 
deck to which the female convicts were allowed at 
certain hours of the day. The next section was the 
deck where the male convicts were allowed to exercise, 
one hundred at a time, throughout the day. 

The fore part of the main-deck, running out to the 
bowsprit like a A, was roofed in, .the angular section 
taking in the bowsprit. The front of this section, run- 
ning across the deck, was composed of enormous bars, 
thicker than a man’s arm, like those around the hatches, 


200 


MOONDYNE. 


and within these bars, in sight of the male convicts on 
deck, were confined the malefactors or rule-breakers. 

This triangular section was the punishment cell of 
the ship. It was entered by a ponderous door, composed 
of bars also. Its two rear walls were the acute angle 
of the ship’s bulwarks ; its front was the row of bars 
running from side to side of the vessel, and facing aft 
on the main deck. 

The evil-doers confined here for punishment had 
neither bed nor seat ; they sat upon the deck, and 
worked at heavy tasks of oakum picking. They could 
not shirk, for a warder kept sentry outside the cage. 

As these refractory ones looked through their bars at 
the deck, they saw, strapped to the foremast, a black 
gaff or spar with iron rings, which, when the spar was 
lowered horizontally, corresponded to rings screwed 
into the deck. 

This was the triangle, where the unruly convicts 
were triced up and flogged every morning. 

Above this triangle, tied around the foremast, was a 
new and very fine hempen "rope, leading away to the 
end of the foreyard. This was the ultimate appeal, 
the law’s last terrible engine, — the halter which 
swung mutineers and murderers out over the hissing 
sea to eternity. 

The Houguemont had taken on board her terrible 
cargo. From early dawn the chains had been march- 
ing down the steep hill from Portland Prison, and 
passing on tugs to her deck, where the convict officers 
unlocked their chains, called their rolls, and sent them 
below to their berths. 

Last of all, the female convicts had come, fifty in 
number, in five chains. 

As they stood huddled on the deck of the transport, 
answering to their numbers, there were hysterical 
sounds and wild eyes among them. At last, their 
chains were unlocked, and the female warders handed 
to each the number of her berth, and sent her below. 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


201 


Toward the end of one of the chains stood a prisoner 
with a white face and a strangely calm air. She did 
not stare around in the dazed way of her unfortunate 
sisters ; but remained on the spot where they bade her 
stand, motionless. She only turned her head once, 
with a smile of silent comfort to some unhappy one 
near her who had made the hysterical sound. 

When the key came to her link of the chain and 
unlocked it, and she stood unshackled, another warder 
thrust into her hand a card, and pushed her toward the 
hatch. She tottered beneath the rough and needless 
force, and would have fallen down the open hatchway, 
had she not caught at a swinging rope, and saved 
herself. As she recovered, she gave a kind of pitiful 
short cry or moan, and looked round bewildered, the 
tears springing to her eyes. The rough and busy 
warder again approached her, and she shrank aside 
in terror. 

At this moment she felt a soft hand take her own, 
and hold it tightly. The touch restored her confidence. 
She turned and met the sweet face and kindly smile of 
Sister Cecilia. The warder at the same moment respect- 
fully saluted the nun. * 

“ This is my hospital assistant, warder,” said Sister 
Cecilia, still holding Alice’s hand. “ She is to be al- 
lowed to go to my room.” 

“ All right, ma’am,” said the warder, who, in reality, 
was not harsh, but only rude and hurried in manner ; 
“pass on, Number Four. Here !” she shouted to the 
next on the chain, “ take this card — and down you go, 
quick ! ” 

And as Alice stood aside with a great sense of relief 
and thankfulness, and with swimming eyes, the ward- 
er whispered to Sister Cecilia : “I’m glad she ’s not 
going among ’em — we ’re all glad on it.” 

Sister Cecilia, holding Alice’s hand, led her along a 
narrow boarded way, at the end of which was a door 


202 


MOONDYNE. 


opening into a pleasant room, one side of which was 
covered with a large medicine-case, and off which lay 
two bright little sleeping-rooms. When the door was 
closed, Sister Cecilia took Alice’s white face between 
her hands with hearty force, and kissed her. 

“ Thank God, my child ! ” she cried, “ you are safe 
at last ! ” 

Alice could not speak; but she controlled herself, 
and kept from sobbing. She looked around wonder- 
ingly. 

“ This is my room, Alice,” said Sister Cecilia ; “ my 
room and yours. This narrow passage is for us alone. 
It leads straight to the female compartment and the 
hospital ; and no one can come here but you and I — 
not a soul, for the next four months. Just think of 
that, child ! Look out that pretty little window, and 
say ‘ good-by ’ to gloomy old England and her prisons. 
We’ll be all alone till we arrive in Australia — except 
when we are attending the sick.” 

Alice Walmsley did not answer in words — her 
heart overflowed, and the kind little nun led her into 
the pleasanter sleeping-room of the two, and left her, 
saying that this was her own room for the voyage. 

When she had gone, Alice sank on her knees with 
such a flood of feeling as seemed to melt her very 
heart. With eyes drowned in tears she raised her 
hands toward the frowning cliffs of Portland, while her 
quivering lips moved in yearning words. 

She was saying farewell, not to England, but to that 
which was greater to her than England — to the little 
spot of earth where lay the body of her dead child. 

0, true heart of motherhood, that never changes, 
never forgets, never loses the sound of the maternal 
music, once the immortal key has been struck. 

“ Good-by, my darling ! 0, if I had only one single 

withered blade of grass to cherish ! ” cried the poor 
mother ; and as she spoke she saw clearly in her mind’s 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


203 


eye the little neglected and forgotten grave. “ Good- 
by, my darling, — for ever — for ever ! ” 

She buried her face in the bed, and wept bitterly 
and long. Sister Cecilia came twice to the room 
softly, and looked in at the mourner, but did not dis- 
turb her. The second time she came, Alice was 
weeping, with bowed head. 

Sister Cecilia leant over her, and placed beside her 
hand a little box, covered with white paper, on which 
lay a sealed letter. Having done so, the Sister laid 
her hand caressingly on Alice’s head, and withdrew 
quietly. 

It was many minutes before Alice raised her tear- 
stained face. As she did so, she laid her hand on the 
little box, and saw the letter. She did not heed it at 
first, thinking it was Sister Cecilia’s. But another 
instant, and she had read her own name — “ Alice 
Walmsley ” — written on the letter, and in a hand that 
was strangely familiar. The written name itself was 
not more familiar than the handwriting. 

Something thrilled her as she took the little box in 
her hand, and opened it. She found within a piece of 
soft mould, in which some sweet young grass was 
growing, and on one side a fresh wild flower, that must 
have been pulled that day. 

As she looked, with blurred, sight, the meaning of 
the blessed gift poured into her heart like balm, and 
her thought rose up to heaven in an ecstasy of 
7 gratitude. 

She did not need to look at the letter ; she divined 
its contents. But at length she took it, and broke the 
seal, and read the few words it contained : — 

“ Dear Alice, — The grass and flowers were growing this morn- 
ing on your baby’s grave. The wild flowers have covered it for 
years. I have arranged that it shall never be neglected nor 
disturbed. Yours faithfully, 

“William Sheridan.” 


204 


MOONDYNE. 


An hour later, Sister Cecilia entered the outer room, 
purposely making a noise to distract Alice’s reverie. 
But she had to come at last and touch her arm, and 
take the box and the letter from her hands, before 
Alice realized the revelation that had come to her. 
She did not see it even then as a whole ; but piece by 
piece in her mind the incredible happiness dawned 
upon her, that she actually had with her the precious 
grass, with young life in it, fresh from her darling’s 
grave. 

And later on, slowly, but by sure degrees, entered 
another thought, that rested like a holy thing beside 
this pure affection. 

The last words of the letter repeated themselves 
like a strain of distant music in her ears : “ Yours 
faithfully — yours faithfully,” — and though the sense 
that was touched had in it a tone of pain and reproach 
that smote her, it roused her from further dwelling on 
her own unhappiness. 


VII. 

THE SAILING OF THE HOUGUEMONT. 

The last convict had been sent below. The barred 
doors in the railed hatchways were locked. The hun- 
dreds of cooped criminals mingled with each other 
freely for the first time in many years. The sentries 
had been posted at the hatches and passages on deck. 
The sailors had shaken out the sails. The capstan had 
been worked until every spare link of cable was up. 

The Houguemont was ready for sea. She only 
awaited the coming of her commander. 

Mr. Wyville walked to and fro on the poop deck, 
casting now and again a searching glance at the pier 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


205 


and the steep cliff road. At length his pace became 
less regular, and his usually imperturbable face .be- 
trayed impatience. It was two hours past the time 
when the captain had engaged to be on board. 

As Mr. Wyville stood looking landward, with a 
darkened brow, the chief warder in command of the 
prison officers, rapidly approached him, with an 
excited air, and saluted in military fashion. 

“ Well, Mr. Gray,” said Mr. Wyville, turning, 
“ what is it ? ” 

“ One man missing, sir ! not on board — he must 
have slipped overboard from the soldiers, and attempted 
to swim ashore.” 

“ When did he come on board ? ” 

“ With the last chain, sir.” 

“Then he must be in the water still. He would 
strike for the mainland, not for the island.” 

As he spoke, a soldier who had run up the rigging 
shouted that there was a hamper or basket floating a 
short distance astern of the ship. 

Mr. Wyville asked one of the ship’s officers for a 
glass, which he levelled at the floating basket. He 
saw that it moved obliquely toward the shore of the 
mainland, though a strong tide was setting in the con- 
trary direction, toward the island. He lowered the 
glass with a saddened air. 

“ Poor fellow ! ” he murmured, shutting the glass, 
irresolutely. He knew that the absconder, finding 
the floating hamper, had placed it over his head in 
order to escape the eyes of the guards. As he laid 
down the telescope, a rifle shot rang from the maintop, 
and the water leaped in a jet of spray within a foot of 
the basket. Next instant, came two reports, the 
basket was knocked on its side, and all on the deck of 
the convict ship plainly saw a man swimming in the 
sea. One of the bullets had struck him, evidently, 
for he shouted, and dashed about wildly. 


206 


MOONDYNE. 


All this had happened in a few seconds. The shots 
had followed each other as rapidly as file-firing. At 
the second shot, Mr. Wyville looked at the soldiers 
with a face aflame with indignation. As the third shot 
rang out, he shouted to the soldiers ; but his voice was 
drowned in the report. 

Next moment, he saw the levelled rifle of another 
soldier, and heard the officer directing his aim. With- 
out a word, Mr. Wyville seized the long and heavy 
marine telescope, which he had laid on the rack, and, 
balancing himself on the poop for an instant, he hurled 
the glass like a missile from a catapult right into the 
group of soldiers on the top. 

The missile struck lengthwise against the rifleman, 
and knocked him toward the mast, his weapon going 
off harmlessly in the air. Consternation seized the 
others, and the young officer began an indignant and 
loud demand as to who had dared assault his men. 

“ Come down, sir,” said Mr. Wyville, sternly, “ and 
receive your orders before you act.” 

The subaltern came down, and joined Mr. Wyville 
on the poop, saluting him as he approached. 

“ I was not aware, sir,” he said, “ that I was to wait 
for orders in cases of mutiny or escape.” 

“ This man could be overtaken,” said Mr. Wyville; 
“ your guards allowed him to escape ; and you have 
no right to kill him for escaping, if the law had no 
right to kill him for his crime.” 

As he spoke, he brought the glass to bear on the 
unfortunate wretch in the water, to whom a boat was 
now sweeping with swift stroke. 

“ My God ! he said, putting down the glass, and 
turning from the officer ; “ the man is drowned ! ” 

The struggling swimmer, spent with previous exer- 
tions, had been struck by a bullet in the shoulder ; 
and though the wound was not mortal, it rapidly spent 
his remaining strength. Before the boat had reached 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 207 

him the poor fellow had thrown up his arms aiid sunk. 
His body was found and taken to the ship. 

During this scene, Captain Draper had come on 
deck, unobserved. He had passed quite close to Mr. 
Wyville as he spoke severely to the military officer. 
A few minutes later, when Mr. Wyville stood alone, 
the captain approached him. 

“ Am I supposed to command this ship, or to take 
orders also ? ” he asked, not offensively, but with his 
usual hybrid smile. 

Mr. Wyville remained silent a moment, as if unde- 
cided. The recent shocking event had somewhat 
changed his plans. 

“ You command the ship, sir,” he said, slowly, and 
fixing his eyes on Captain Draper’s face, “ under me. 
So long as your duty is done, no interference will be 
possible. It may be well to understand now, how- 
ever, that there is a higher authority than yours on 
board.” 

Captain Draper bowed ; then turning to his chief 
officer, who had heard the conversation, he gave orders 
for sailing. 


VIII. 

FACE TO FACE. 

The convict ship, with all sail set, before a strong 
quarter-breeze, ploughed heavily round the South of 
England, and then spread her arms like a sea-spirit as 
she swept majestically toward the deep southern seas. 

Ho need to moralize afresh on the weird contrast 
between the tall ship, nobly and beautifully breasting 
the waves, and the hideous secret she bears within, — 

“ Who, as she smiles in the silvery light, 

Spreading her wings on the bosom of night, 


208 


MOONDYNE. 


Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky, 

A phantom of beauty, could deem with a sigh, 

That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin, 

And that souls that are smitten lie bursting within ! 

Who, as he watches her silently gliding. 

Remembers that wave after wave is dividing 
Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever, 

Hearts that are broken and parted for ever ? 

Or deems that he watches, afloat on the wave, 

The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit’s grave?” 

The first few days of the voyage are inexpressibly 
horrible. The hundreds of pent-up wretches are un- 
used to the darkness of the ship, strange to their 
crowded quarters and to each other, depressed in 
spirits at their endless separation from home, sickened 
to death with the merciless pitch and roll of the ves- 
sel, alarmed at the dreadful thunder of the waves 
against their prison walls, and fearful of sudden engulf- 
ment,with the hatches barred. The scene is too hideous 
for a picture — too dreadful to be described in words. 

Only those who have stood within the bars, and 
heard the din of devils and the appalling sounds of 
despair, blended in a diapason that made every hatch- 
mouth a vent of hell, can imagine the horrors of the 
hold of a convict ship. 

About a week out from England, the Houguemont 
went bowling down the Atlantic, and across the Bay 
of Biscay. The night was cold and dark, and the 
strong breeze held the ship steady, with every sail 
drawing. 

Mr. Wyville and Sheridan, the latter of whom had 
come on deck for the first time since the vessel sailed, 
in warm great-coats, walked the lee side of the poop ; 
while the captain, also heavily wrapped, paced the 
weather side, glancing now and again at the sails, and 
taking an occasional look at the course. 

“ You have got over your sea-sickness ? ” asked Mr. 
Wyville. 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


209 


Sheridan laughed. 

“ You forget that I am a sailor, Mr. Wyville,” he 
said. “ I had another reason for keeping my room.” 

Will Sheridan, for months past, had often been on 
the point of telling Mr. Wyville the whole story of his 
life, his love for Alice Walmsley, and her terrible suf- 
fering for another’s crime ; but the moment still had 
gone by, and he had never broached the subject. He 
longed to speak his warm gratitude to the wise friend 
who had preserved Alice’s reason and life in Millbank. 

Mr. Wyville never dreamt that Sheridan and Alice 
Walmsley had known each other. He did not know 
that on the deck at that moment stood Sheridan’s 
deadliest enemy, within five yards of the man he 
hated, and who mortally hated him. 

“ I will tell him all now,” were the words in Sheri- 
dan’s mind ; and he turned to Mr. Wyville, and took 
hold of his arm. They paused in their walk, and 
stood at the foot of the mizzen-mast. 

At that moment, the captain went toward the 
wheel, and bent his head to look at the compass. 
The strong binnacle-light fell full upon his face, just 
as Will Sheridan stopped and laid his hand on Mr. 
Wyville’s arm. 

The face in the binnacle glare was straight before 
Sheridan. His eyes were arrested by it as by a spec- 
tre; his hand closed like a vise on the arm of his 
friend. 

“God Almighty!” The words rushed from his 
heart in a hissing whisper. 

Mr. Wyville was astounded, but he could not even 
surmise the cause of Sheridan’s tremendous excite- 
ment. He had seen the face of the captain as it re- 
mained for a moment in the strong light ; but he did 
not connect this with his friend’s emotion. He waited 
for Sheridan to speak. 

Instead of speaking, Sheridan watched the dark 
14 - 


210 


MOONDYNE. 


figure of the captain as he passed from the wheel to 
the weather side of the poop, and paced slowly up and 
down. Then he drew a deep breath, tremulous with 
aroused passion. 

“ Who is that man ? ” he asked, in a low voice, after 
a long look. 

“ That is the captain,” answered Mr. Wyville. “ Let 
me introduce you. Captain Draper ! ” 

The captain walked toward them. Sheridan re- 
mained just as he had been standing. 

“ Captain Draper, let me introduce — ” 

“ Stay ! ” said Sheridan, laying his hand on Mr. 
Wy ville’s breast, “ one moment.” 

Tie strode to the binnacle, seized the lamp, and re- 
turned with it in his hand. When he was within two 
feet of Draper, he threw the light full on his own 
face, sternly turned toward his enemy. 

“ Now I ” he said, “ now, introduce me ! ” 

The sight of the terrible face struck Draper like a 
physical blow. His breath came in a short gasp, and 
he staggered back till he leaned against the mast. He 
never said a word. 

Sheridan turned the glare of the lamp upon him for 
an instant, then snatched it rapidly away from the re- 
pulsive sight. At that moment, with the veil of dark- 
ness suddenly torn back, Draper’s face was ghastly, and 
his attitude full of terror. 

Will Sheridan replaced the lamp in the binnacle, 
and walked straight to his own room. 

Mr. Wyville was profoundly astonished and puzzled 
at this scene. He remained on deck for an hour or 
more after Sheridan’s abrupt departure; but he did 
not speak to Captain Draper, who paced his side of 
the poop in gloomy silence. 

It was an hour of fearful torture to Draper, for, like 
most scoundrels who are cowards, he suffered over and 
over again the agonies of shame and exposure which 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


211 


he knew he had earned. But, like this class, too, he 
always planned his conduct, even his words, before- 
hand. As soon as the appalling interview had passed, 
and he found himself personally unmolested, his adroit 
and subtle mind began weaving the warp and woof of 
a devil’s plot that should make him the winner in 
this contest now begun. 

He looked at Wyville, who stood gazing out on the 
sea, and asked himself, “Does he know?” And 
he speedily ran over the signs, and concluded that 
Mr. Wyville knew nothing of his relations to Sheridan. 
He remembered that Wyville had called him to be 
introduced to Sheridan, and he had noticed the sur- 
prised exclamation with which Wyville had observed 
Sheridan’s extraordinary conduct. 

The midnight eight bells sounded, and the mate 
came to relieve the captain from his watch; but 
Draper said he could not sleep, and would remain on 
deck an hour longer. 

In that hour, he was alone on the poop ; Mr. Wy- 
ville had gone below. Draper, looking down through 
the glass roof of the dining-room, saw that a bright 
light was burning in Sheridan’s room. As he looked 
at the light, secretly and alone, a desperate hatred 
burned in his heart like poison. The years of his 
guilt were melted down into that one hour, and they 
took the form of a blighting curse. Could malediction 
have murdered Sheridan, he would have been withered 
to death by the baneful light of Draper’s eyes. 

But the hatred of a man so naturally evil as Draper 
is apt to turn into practical injury. The coward who 
hates is never at rest ; he will either malign his enemy 
with foul words in secret, or he will dig a pit for his 
feet. It is only manly men who can hate and hold 
their tongues. 

As Draper paced the deck, towards the end of the 
hour, his tread actually became stealthy and fearful, 


212 


MOONDYNE. 


as if he dreaded lest the nature of his thoughts might 
be read in the sound of his steps. Slowly and carefully 
he turned the circumstances over in his mind. Wyville 
certainly did not know of his relations with Sheridan. 
Sheridan himself had evidently been surprised at the 
meeting. Only one knew : none else had any interest 
in knowing. That one must be silenced, or — he, 
Draper, must face disgrace. Once before, Sheridan 
had eluded his design ; but this time — and, as he con- 
cluded his walk and plot together, he glared at the 
light in Will Sheridan’s room, like a serpent in the 
outer darkness, — this time there would be no mis- 
take or hesitation on his part. 


IX. 

HOW A PRISONER MIGHT BREAK A BAR. 

The days slipped into weeks as the Houguemont 
sailed southward down the great commercial highway 
of the Atlantic. The mild airs of the warmer lati- 
tudes surprised and delighted those who had only 
known the moist climate of Britain. As the vessel 
sailed close to the island of Pico, one of the Azores, 
the deck was crowded with gazers on the unknown 
land. 

It was the forenoon of a lovely day. The sun shone 
with radiant splendor on the soaring peak and purple 
cliffs of Pico. The island seemed to most of those 
on the* ship like some legendary land of fairy lore. 
They had never seen any country but England, and 
they had never before heard even the name of this 
important-looking place. 

On the bow of the convict ship, standing on the 
raised deck, which was the roof of the punishment- 
cell or compartment, stood three men, looking up at 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


213 


Pico. These three, from the day of the ship’s sailing, 
had been drawn together by inherent attraction ; and 
now, among all the queer new friendships of the voy- 
age, there was none stronger than theirs. And yet 
they were very dissimilar, inwardly and outwardly. 

One was a tall man, solemn-faced and severe, dressed 
in sombre garments ; the next was a small man, mild 
of face and manner, clad in old-fashioned sailor’s blue; 
the third was a very black man, whose hair stood up- 
right on his head when he removed his immense fur 
cap, and whose body from throat to feet was clothed in 
furs. 

Strange it was, that this seemingly discordant trio, 
Mr. Haggett, Officer Lodge, and Ngarra-jil, had devel- 
oped a mutual attraction, each for the other ; and, after 
a few weeks at sea, had spent almost their whole wak- 
ing time in each other’s company. 

They did not converse much, if any. Ben Lodge did 
not quite understand Mr. Haggett’s solemn scriptural 
illustrations and heavy comments ; Mr. Haggett did not 
pay much heed to Ben Lodge’s dreadful tale of car- 
nage in the Chinese bombardment; and neither of them 
understood Ngarra-jil, nor did he comprehend a word 
they said. 

Yet they passed day after day in each other’s com- 
pany, leaning over the vessel’s side or sitting on the 
sunny forecastle. 

The presence of Officer Lodge on board needs ex- 
planation. Two days before the convict ship sailed, 
Mr. Wyville walked into the lock-up at Walton-le- 
Dale, followed by Ngarra-jil. 

Officer Lodge met him with a mild, every-day air, 
and, pointing with a backward motion of the hand 
toward the cell, informed him that it was “ hempty.” 

“Have you any relatives or others depending on 
you?” asked Mr. Wyville, falling into the matter- 
of-fact simplicity of the little policeman. 


214 


MOONDYNE. 


“ No, sir ; no one as can’t get along without me. I 
’ave lived here alone for fifteen year. I don’t know a 
man, though, in Walton to take my place. There ’s a 
deal of trust in this hoffice, sir ; a deal of trust.” 

“ What property do you own here ? ” asked Mr. 
Wyville. 

“The donkey and water-cart is mine, though the 
village gave ’em to me. That ’s all the property.” 

“ I need a careful man to oversee a settlement,” said 
Mr. Wyville. “ But he will have to go to Australia. 
He will he comfortably placed, much more so than you 
are here ; and his engagement will be permanent. I 
came to offer the place to you — can you come ? ” 

“ Yessir,” said Officer Lodge, as quietly as if he were 
asked to walk down the street. “ Do you want me to 
start now.” 

“ It is now noon ; I will return to London on the 
two o’clock train. Meanwhile, I will walk through 
the village.” Turning to Ngarra-jil, Mr. Wyville said 
in his own language, “ You can remain here.” 

Mr. Wyville walked straight to the old home of 
Alice Walmsley, and lingered a long time in and 
around the deserted and decaying cottage. There was 
a warm feeling in his heart, a new and happy growth, 
which was thrilled and strengthened as his eye fell on 
objects that might once have been familiar to Alice 
Walmsley. 

As he left the place, to return for Officer Lodge, it 
seemed as dear to him as if he had known and loved 
it all his life. He turned toward it, as he walked 
down the road, and there was a quiet gladness in his 
face. 

“ She will leave it all behind,” he murmured. “ There 
shall be no picture of its wretchedness in her memory.” 

He passed to the court-house. Officer Lodge and 
Ngarra-jil were sitting in the office, silently looking at 
each other. At first, Officer Lodge had spoken to his 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


215 


companion ; but Ngarra-jil had answered only by a 
gruff and unintelligible monosyllable. They then had 
subsided into perfect silence. 

“ Are you ready ? ” asked' Mr. Wyville. 

“ Yessir 

“ Come.” 

They went to the railway station, and took their 
seats for London. Officer Lodge and Ngarra-jil sat 
opposite each other, and continued their acquaintance 
in the same silent fashion which had marked its be- 
ginning in the station-house. 

On board the convict ship, they had attracted the 
lonely Mr. Haggett, who, in a patronizing manner at 
first, joined their company. 

As these three stood near the bow of the Hougue - 
mont, looking up at the purple cliffs of lofty Pico, 
there rose an extraordinary commotion on the deck, 
among the convicts. 

That morning, two men, the worst and most dis- 
orderly characters in the ship, had been locked up in 
the punishment-crib. They had first been sentenced to 
work at oakum-picking ; but they sat within the bars 
idle, staring out at the crowd of convicts on deck, and 
singing and shouting. For this they had been again 
reported, and the officers had now come to take them 
out for further punishment. 

The officers stood waiting for him who had the key 
of the barred door ; and he was searching vainly in his 
pockets. After a while, it was evident that the key 
had been mislaid or lost. The officers could not open 
the barred door. 

The two culprits within were the first to understand 
this, and they set up a howl of derision. They danced 
about in their den, cursing the officers and snapping 
their fingers at them through the bars. 

At length a dreadful idea struck one of the des- 
perate wretches. His eye had fallen on the heap of 


216 


MOONDYNE. 


loosely-picked oakum inside the bars. With a yell he 
seized an armful of the inflammable material and 
threw it far within the cage, against a heap of tarred 
rope ready for picking. 

The officers stood outside, watching the fellow’s 
action with alarm. When he had gathered all the 
oakum into a pile, he drew from his pocket a lucifer 
match, and flourished it before the officers’ eyes with 
a grin of triumph and devilish meaning. His brutal 
associate within the bars, upon whom the meaning of 
the preparations broke suddenly at sight of the match, 
gave a wild shout of delight and defiance. 

“ Damn you ! ” he cried, shaking his fist at the 
powerless warders, “ you can’t help yourselves. We’ll 
set fire to the ship before your eyes ! ” 

The dreadful threat struck terror into the convicts 
on deck, who began to huddle together like sheep. 

The officers looked into each other’s pale faces, dumb 
and helpless. One of them caught hold of the massive 
bars of the door, and shook them with all his force. 
He might as well have tried to shake down the 
mast. 

Yelling with delight at their power, the two mis- 
creants within piled up the pyre. Then, he who held 
the match selected a dry place on deck to strike it. 
He bent down on his knees, and covered his action 
from the eyes of the officers. 

In another instant he sprang to his feet, holding a 
blazing rope of loosely-twisted oakum. With a laugh 
that rang through the ship, he applied the torch to the 
pile of oakum, and the yellow flame licked up the 
ready material with fearful rapidity. 

At sight of the flame, a cry of alarm rose from the 
huddled convicts, drowning the reports of the officers’ 
pistols, who were shooting down the incendiaries. 

It was too late. Had they used their pistols before 
the match was struck, they would have acted in time. 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


217 


To slaughter the wretches now was to insure the con- 
tinuation of the fire. Were the prisoners let alone, 
they might have become terrified at their own danger, 
and have quenched the blaze before it had seized the 
ship. 

One of the officers placed the muzzle of his pistol to 
the ponderous lock of the cage, and fired. The bullet 
destroyed the lock, but did not force it. At that mo- 
ment, with a cry of success, an officer dashed through 
the crowd and seized the lock. He had found the 
key! 

But it would not turn in the shattered wards. The 
bullet had wedged everything together, and the bolt 
had become a rivet. 

By this time the flames had swept over the pile of 
tarred rope, and had fastened on the beams overhead. 
The pitch bubbled up between the seams of the deck, 
and dense volumes of smoke poured through the bars. 

The alarm had spread to the convicts below, and an 
awful sound of affright arose from the hundreds of 
horrified hearts. 

The officers dashed wildly to and fro. Some of the 
ship’s crew had begun to work with axes on the roof 
of the cage, which was a heavily-timbered deck. The 
fire began to roar with the dreadful sound that denotes 
the untamable power of approaching conflagration. 

At this moment, Mr. Wyville came forward, and 
with one glance took in the whole scene. Every one 
gave way for him as he strode to the cage. The con- 
victs prayed him, “ save us ! ” the ultimate appeal of 
terror-stricken men. 

He stood an instant looking at the fire — saw the 
mortal danger. In ten minutes more, no earthly 
power could subdue the flames. 

“Shall we open the hatches, and let the convicts 
come on deck ? ” asked the pallid chief warder, the 
key in his hand. 


218 


MOONDYNE. 


“ Ho ! ” shouted Wyville with such sudden force 
that the man staggered back in dismay. 

Mr. Wyville looked at the lock, and saw its condi- 
tion. He shook the bars with amazing force. 

A gust of flame and smoke now rushed through the 
bars, and drove every one hack, even Mr. Wyville. 
He rushed forward again ; then turned to the officers, 
who had retreated to the foremast, and called them to 
him. Hot one moved — they were cowed. 

Another instant, and a tall man pushed through the 
crowd, and stood beside Wyville. It was Mr. Hag- 
gett. Their eyes met for one instant. They under- 
stood one another. 

“ What do you want ? ” asked Haggett, in a low, 
steady voice. 

“ The silk curtains from the dining-room — quick ! ” 
answered Mr. Wyville in the same tone. 

Next moment, Haggett was clearing a lane for him- 
self through and over the crowd. He disappeared to- 
ward the cabin. They knew he would return, and 
they kept the way open for him. In half a minute he 
flew back, in each hand a long red silken curtain, torn 
from the cabin windows. 

Mr. Wyville stood waiting for him, holding in his 
hand a heavy iron belaying-pin, which he had taken 
from the rail. He took one of the curtains, twisted it 
into a rope, and pushed one end through the bars. 
This end he brought out four bars off, and around 
these four bars he wound both curtains, one after the 
other. 

When the curtains were entirely wound in this way, 
he inserted the heavy iron rod between the folds, at 
the two central bars, and began to turn it end over end 
like a lever. The first turn made the silken rope 
rigid ; the second strained it ; the third called out all 
the muscular power of the man. But there was noth- 
ing gained. 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


219 


Mr. Wyville turned, and looked toward Haggett, 
who approached. Both men seized the iron lever, and 
pulled it down with all their force. 

“This is a convict’s trick,” said Haggett, as they 
paused for breath. 

Mr. Wyville made no reply ; but continued the tre- 
mendous leverage. There was a cry from the con- 
victs : they saw the massive bars yielding — the two 
outer bars bending toward the centre under the terrific 
strain. 

Once again the upper end of the lever was seized by 
both men, and with a united effort of strength pulled 
and pressed down. The next turn was easily made : 
the mighty bars had bent like lead in the centre and 
then broken, leaving two gaps wide enough to allow 
the entrance of a man. 

When this was done, Mr. Wyville and Mr. Haggett 
fell back, while the officers and sailors dashed into the 
burning cage, smothering the flames with wet sails, 
beneath which they trampled out the fire. 

The vessel was saved, and not one minute could 
have been spared. In the wild uproar that followed, 
each one giving vent to the pent-up excitement of the 
moment, Mr. Wyville, turning in the crowd, met the 
eyes of Haggett, earnestly fixed on his face. He had 
often observed his watchfulness before ; but there was 
another meaning in his eyes to-day. 

Without a word, Mr. Wyville put out his hand, 
which Haggett grimly seized. 

“Thank you,” said Mr. Wyville. 

“ That ’s not right,” said Haggett ; “ you have saved 
all our lives.” 

Mr. Wyville negatively shook his head, with his 
usual grave smile, and was about to pass on. Mr. Hag- 
gett slowly let go his hand, still looking at him with 
the same strange expression. They had parted a few 
paces, when Haggett strode after Mr. Wyville with a 


220 


MOONDYNE. 


new impulse, seized his hand once more in a grip of 
iron, and met his eye with a face working in strong 
emotion, every possible reef in his immense lips quiv- 
ering with suppressed feeling. 

“ Forgive me ! ” he said ; and without another word 
he dropped Mr. Wyville’s hand, turned, and strode off 
to his room by the other side of the ship. 

That night, when the excitement had died, and the 
usual quiet had been restored, Mr. Wyville and Sheri- 
dan walked the poop for hours. Mr. Wyville made 
no mention of Haggett’s strange conduct. 

Toward midnight they went to their rooms. The 
extraordinary events of the day had kept them from 
talking about Captain Draper, though the subject had 
been for days uppermost in both minds. 

When Mr. Wyville entered his room, his eyes fell 
on a letter, fixed endwise on his table to attract his 
attention. It was addressed to him. He opened it, 
and took out a photograph — the portrait of a convict 
in chains. There was no other enclosure. 

On the back of it were written these words, in Mr. 
Haggett’s handwriting, dated four years before : — 

“ This is the only photograph of the man known as Moondyne. 
It wa3 taken in Western Australia, just before his latest escape 
from Fremantle Prison. All other photographs of this prisoner 
have unaccountably disappeared from the prison books.” 

Mr. Wyville gazed a long time at the strange present. 
Then he laid it on the table, locked his door, and 
walked meditatively to and fro his narrow room. At 
times he would stop and take the picture from the 
table, lookT at it with deep attention, while his lips 
moved as if he were addressing it. 

At last he took the portrait, tore it to pieces, and, 
opening the window of his room, threw the pieces 
into the sea. 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


221 


X. 

DEAD-SEA FRUIT. 

From the moment that Will Sheridan had recog- 
nized Draper in the .captain of the Houguemont, his 
mind was filled with an acute fear that Alice Walms- 
ley might suddenly come face to face with the wretch 
who had blighted her existence. Such a meeting might 
be fatal — it certainly would be grievous. 

It was the sudden touch of this fear that made 
Sheridan walk so quickly to his room on the night of 
the recognition. It came like a flash ; and he deemed 
it best to consider his course of action calmly. 

Sailor as he was, he knew that the commander of a 
ship usually had absolute power over all on board. 
He had observed, however, that Mr. Wyville, on one 
or two occasions, had assumed an authority in certain 
matters relating to the prisoners. This gave him com- 
fort. In case Draper recognized Alice Walmsley on 
the ship, that instant, Sheridan resolved, he would 
make known the whole terrible story to Mr. Wyville, 
and avert intended evil, if possible by fear, if neces- 
sary by force. 

Meanwhile, Sheridan saw Sister Cecilia, who knew 
that he was an old friend of the innocent and much- 
wronged girl, and requested her to keep Alice at all 
times off the main deck. He gave no reason for the 
request. 

“ But, Mr. Sheridan/’ said the nun, thinking of 
Alice’s health, “ she must come into the open air some 
time.’ , 

“ It were better not — better not,” answered Sheri- 
dan, in a troubled mind; “it were better that she 
should remain all day in the hospital.” 

“In the hospital ! ” repeated the wise little nun, 


222 


MOONDYNE. 


with a pitying smile. She evidently saw, more clearly 
than any one on board, the strange complications 
around her. The hearts of at least four of the prin- 
cipal actors in the sorrowful drama were open to her 
eyes ; she saw the relations of Sheridan, Alice, the 
miserable Harriet Draper, and her guilty husband. 

But even Sister Cecilia, wise as she was, did not 
know that there was a fifth heart deeply concerned in 
the play. As she repeated Sheridan’s words, her pity- 
ing smile died away into lines of sorrow, seeing how 
blindly he would turn Alice’s steps from one danger to 
a deeper one. She recalled, too, at the word, the 
supreme desolation and misery of that one who now 
spent her days in the hospital. 

“ Do not fear, Mr. Sheridan,” she said, as she went 
on her way of mercy ; “ Alice will be safe. She will 
remain in my hospital.” 

Taking this as an agreement with his request, Mr. 
Sheridan resolved that his conduct toward the captain 
should be absolutely reserved, until the vessel reached 
port. Then, what to do was beset with difficulties. 
That dire punishment should overtake the villain was 
clear ; but what if his public arraignment would dis- 
turb the peace of Alice, whose slowly-healing wounds 
would thus be torn open ? 

Instead of coming to a decision, Sheridan resolved 
that on the first opportunity he would lay the whole 
matter before Mr. Wyville, and follow his advice. 

Soon after entering the tropics, the Houguemont 
had caught the trade winds, and sailed swiftly down 
the level seas. Her tall masts dwindled pigmy-like as 
she passed beneath the awful shadow of Teneriffe. 
Her sky-sails cut a line on the cliff a finger’s breadth 
from the sea ; while above her towered into the air the 
twelve thousand feet of tremendous pinnacle. She 
coasted the great Northwestern bulge of Africa ; and 
here, for the first time since leaving England, her speed 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


223 


was checked, the trade winds faded and died, the sea 
lost its ripples, but kept its waves, that rose and fell 
slowly, with long, monotonous rolls, like an ocean of 
molten glass. The sails of the Houguemont slapped 
backward and forward, the ropes hung useless, the 
pennant clung down the mast. The convict ship was 
becalmed, off the coast of Africa, seven degrees above 
the Line. 

The faces of the ship’s officers grew serious when 
the wind died. They did not welcome a calm in such 
a latitude, and at that season. The heat was intense 
and continuous, scarcely lowering by ten degrees at 
night. 

“ I wish we were five degrees to the westward,” 
said Sheridan to Mr. Wyville, his old marine lore re- 
curring to him ; “ I hate this Gulf of Guinea.” 

“ Why ? ” asked Mr. Wyville, standing in shade of 
a sail, while the young military officer sat beside 
Sheridan on the rail. 

“ I hate it first for its sharks ; you can’t dip your 
hand in this water, for a thousand miles South and 
East, without having it snapped off. I hate it for its 
low coast, where so many splendid ships have sailed 
straight to destruction. I hate it for its siroccos, whirl- 
winds, and, above all, I hate it for its fevers. I don’t 
think there ’s anything good about the coast of Guinea.” 

“ That is a bad showing, certainly,” said the military 
officer. 

“ Yes ; and it ’s quite true,” continued Sheridan. 
“No one can say a good word about this coast.” 

“ Not so fast, not so fast,” said Mr. Wyville, smiling 
at Sheridan’s earnestness. “ On this very coast, within 
two hundred miles of us, is being solved one of the 
most interesting political problems in human history. 
Yonder lies a settlement with a national story un- 
equalled for dignity and pathos.” 

Sheridan and the young soldier looked up, astonished. 


224 


MOONDYNE. 


“ What is it ? ” asked Sheridan. 

“ The Eepublic of Liberia,” said Mr. Wyville. 

Sheridan looked at the soldier, who, at the same mo- 
ment, looked at him. They both smiled broadly, con- 
fessing their ignorance. 

“ I was too busy with sandalwood — ” began 
Sheridan. 

“ And I with tactics,” said the soldier. “ But what 
is this Republic, sir ? ” 

“ A new country, honestly acquired,” said Mr. Wy- 
ville ; “ the only country on earth not torn by force 
from its rightful owners. A country where slaves 
have peacefully founded a nation of elevated freedom ; 
where black men have faced God in manly dignity, 
and declared their right to wipe out the scriptural 
curse ; whose citizenship is an honor to the holder, and 
whose citizens are an honor to mankind.” 

“ Who are the citizens ? ” asked the surprised officer. 

“Slaves from America!” said Wyville with an 
earnestness that made them forget the heat ; “ men 
who bear on their bodies the marks of the lash, and on 
their minds the rust of accursed laws ; men who might 
be pardoned for hating their kind. God bless them ! ” 
and, as he spoke, he looked away in the direction of 
the land ; “ the kindest and most amiable race on earth. 
They have carried with them from the great Republic 
of the West only that which was good — its first 
principles. Its unrepublican practices they have left 
behind.” 

“ Will they not become corrupt ? ” asked Sheridan. 

“ When ? ” 

“ When they become rich,” said the officer innocently. 

“ It is to be feared,” answered Mr. Wyville. “ But 
they have one safeguard.” 

“ What is that ? ” 

“ Their climate is deadly to white men,” said Mr. 
Wyville. 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


225 


The appearance of Captain Draper, coming from his 
stateroom, interrupted the conversation. The young 
officer stopped to chat with him, while Mr. Wyville 
and Sheridan walked to the other side of the poop. 

“ There are two powers of government represented 
on this ship,” said Sheridan, determined to bring the 
conversation to the point he wished to speak about ; 
“ which is in command — the civil or military ? The 
captain of the vessel or the military officer ? ” 

“ Neither.” 

“ I do not understand.” 

“When convicts sail from England, they are as- 
sumed to be at once in the Penal Colony. As soon as 
the convict ship leaves land, she becomes subject to 
the penal law of Western Australia.” 

“ Who administers the law on board ? ” 

“ The representative of the Comptroller-General of 
Convicts, the actual authority over the criminals in 
Western Australia.” 

“ Then we have a representative of the Comptroller- 
General on board ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Pardon me, Mr. Wyville ; you speak riddles to- 
day. You said a moment ago that every convict ship 
had such a representative.” 

“ Yes ; unless it have the Comptroller himself.” 

“ Then we have — Are you the Comptroller- 
General ? ” 

“Yes. The office was vacant, and at the request of 
the Prime Minister I accepted a temporary appoint- 
ment. I am glad it was offered ; for it will enable me 
to see our new law fairly started.” 

The evening had closed in as they conversed, and now 
the shade became somewhat tolerable. Mr. Wyville 
and Sheridan had drawn their deck chairs toward the 
wheel-house. 

“ I am glad there is a power on board above that of 
15 


226 


MOONDYNE. 


the scoundrel who commands the ship,” said Sheri- 
dan, sternly, after a long pause. Then he continued 
rapidly : “ Mr. Wyville, I have feared every day that 
I should have to strangle the wretch. I should have 
told you before ; but something always prevented. By 
some strange fatality there is on board this ship a 
woman whom I have loved all my life, and who has 
been mortally wronged by this man. I have come on 
this ship only to protect her.” 

Sheridan’s lowered voice was husky with deep 
emotion. Having said so much he remained silent. 

Mr. Wyville had been looking out on the glassy and 
slow roll of the waves. As Sheridan spoke, his lips 
and mouth closed with a gradual compression, and 
a light almost of alarm came into his eyes. He was 
thinking of Alice Walmsley. 

“You have loved her all your life,” he repeated 
slowly, still looking at the sea. 

“ Since I was a boy — and she loved me once.” 

Mr. Wyville was about to speak ; but it seemed as 
if he changed his mind. Still his lips moved, but he 
said nothing. 

“ Who is she, and where ? ” he said after a pause, 
and in his usual calm voice. 

“ She is a prisoner,” answered Sheridan ; " and she 
is confined in the hospital.” 

“ In the hospital ! ” cried Wyville, starting to his 
feet, with almost a cry of joy ; then, seeing Sheridan’s 
face, he controlled himself. 

“ That unhappy one !*” 

“Yes,” said Sheridan, sadly, thinking that so he 
described Alice Walmsley. 

“ God help you, my friend ! yours is a terrible grief.” 

“ I have feared that he would see her, or that she 
might see him.” 

“Fear no more,” said Wyville, tenderly; “I have 
taken measures to prevent such a meeting.” 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


227 


“ You knew, then ? ” asked Sheridan, surprised. 

“ I knew his guilt — but not your sorrow. I knew 
that he and she were on this ship. It was I who 
brought him here ; and I had beforehand secured her 
confinement during the voyage in the hospital.” 

Sheridan was surprised at this, having so lately 
spoken to Sister Cecilia on the subject. But he set it 
down to the customary thoughtfulness of Mr. W y- 
ville. 

“ I cannot speak my gratitude to you,” continued 
Sheridan ; “ your visit to her prison awakened in her 
the life that wrong and grief had crushed. I know 
the whole story, and I have longed to speak my 
gratitude.” 

Mr. Wyville deemed that Sheridan referred to his 
visit to Harriet Draper in Walton-le-Dale. But how 
could Sheridan have discovered it ? He had certainly 
never communicated with Harriet Draper. 

“ How did you learn of my visit to her ? ” asked Mr. 
Wyville. 

“ From the governor of Millbank.” 

“ Ah — yes ; I told him.” 

Sheridan felt a great relief from this confidence. 
He asked Mr. Wyville’s advice as to his conduct 
toward Draper during the voyage ; and was glad to 
find that it coincided with his own view; to treat 
him with cold neutrality until the Houguemont had 
landed her passengers and had ceased to be a govern- 
ment ship. 

When Sheridan had gone to his room, Mr. Wyville 
remained on deck alone. His heart was strangely 
happy that night, though he was oppressed by the 
grief of his friend. For one moment he had feared 
that the next would crush to death something that had 
grown within him like a new and sweeter life. As he 
recalled the scene, his heart stood still with the fear, 
even in fantasy. 


228 


MOONDYNE. 


“ Thank God ! ” he murmured, as he watched the 
moon rise, red and large, on the sultry horizon. “ One 
blow has been spared ! ” 


XI. 

THE FEVER. 

Mr. Haggett at first had found himself a lonely 
man on the convict ship. His position was anomalous. 
He was neither a minister nor a prison officer. Had 
he been the former, the ship’s officers and the military 
officers would have taken him into their mess ; had he 
been the latter, the convict officials would have been 
his companions. But he was only a hired drudge, a 
non-professional. He was called simply “ the Scripture- 
reader.” 

So he was thrown for companionship on the two 
other lonely passengers, Ben Lodge and Xgarra-jil, who 
were glad of his company, and entirely ignorant of his 
position. 

Mr. Haggett’s nature was by no means a bad one ; 
indeed, in other circumstances it would have been an 
admirable one. He was simply one of those persons 
who make up the million, who are common vessels to 
hold that which is put into them. He was a queer 
mixture of zeal and conceit. His mind had two keys, 
as a sparrow has only two notes, and these were 
earnestness and vanity. 

Had he been trained as a mechanic, he would have 
patiently mastered his trade, never improving on what 
he had been taught ; and he would have been vain of 
his skill, and faithful to it. 

To give such a man a field of metaphysical labor, to 
put into his callow hands the absolute spiritual con- 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


229 


trol of hundreds of lives in need of wise spiritual 
guidance, was an experiment far more injurious to 
poor Haggett than to the convicts. It is so always. 
A priest’s vestments are too great for small natures, 
which they injure, if they do not destroy. 

He became puffed up with an absurd wind of con- 
ceit, that almost amounted to real character; while 
the convicts, heedless before, only confirmed their 
opinion that Christianity was a wordy and stiff pro- 
fession rather than a true saving principle. 

When Mr. Wyville humiliated Haggett in Millbank, 
the blow appeared terrible ; but in truth it only struck 
Haggett where he was puffed. As a man might cut a 
balloon with a sharp sword, Mr Wyville’s interference 
and authority had gashed the swelling vanity of the 
Scripture-reader. 

From that day, though he afterwards set out to do 
Sir Joshua Hobb’s dirty work, Mr. Haggett had 
changed — he was gradually returning to his real na- 
ture, which was, as it ought to be, humble, diffident, 
and commonplace. 

“ This is a good man,” something within him kept 
saying of Mr. Wyville ; “ w r hy are you his enemy ? ” 
And the answer came, and repeated itself : “ Because 
you are Sir Joshua Hobb’s tool.” 

These thoughts floated through Haggett’s mind on 
his first visit to Australia ; and that they had an effect 
on his conduct was certain. Vague hints and doubts 
and clews, which Sir Joshua would have been eager to 
seize, Haggett indeed had found, but had kept to 
himself. 

Since the Houguemont sailed he had been especially 
disturbed in mind. When the incident of the fire 
came, and he spoke his mind to Mr. Wyville in the 
hurried words, “ Forgive me ! ” it was not a sudden 
thought. But it was overwhelming. As a dam may 
tremble for years, especially in time of storm, and go 


230 


MOONDYNE. 


down at last with a rush, so the last harrier of Haggett’s 
vanity broke that day, and left the reservoir of his con- 
ceit dry and unsightly to himself. 

A man suffers deeply who has to turn an inward eye 
on such a scene. But an honest man, helped by hu- 
mility, will do it, and survive ; and at bottom Haggett 
was honest and humble. 

He did not appear on deck for days after the fire ; 
and when he did come out, he spent his time in strange 
fashion. He would hang around the passage to Sister 
Cecilia’s quarters for hours ; and when the little nun 
was on her way to the female convicts, the ungainly 
Scripture-reader would start from some unexpected 
angle, and watch for an opportunity to offer some .ser- 
vice. 

This continued for weeks, until at last Sister Cecilia 
noticed the attention. She quietly bowed her head 
one day in thanks for some slight favor; and for the 
rest of the day Mr. Haggett’s face was lined with good 
humor and gratification. 

When the ship was becalmed in the tropics, the suf- 
fering of the imprisoned wretches in the steaming and 
crowded hold was piteous to see. They were so packed 
that free movement was impossible. The best thing to 
do was to sit each on his or her berth, and suffer in 
patience. 

The air was stifling and oppressive. There was no 
draught through the barred hatches. The deck above 
them was blazing hot. The pitch dropped from the 
seams, and burned their flesh as it fell. 

There was only one word spoken or thought — one 
yearning idea present in every mind — water, cool 
water to slake the parching thirst. 

Two pints of water a day were served out to each 
convict — a quart of half-putrid and blood-warm liquid. 
It was a woful sight to see the thirsty souls devour this 
allowance, as soon as their hot hands seized the vessel. 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


231 


Day in and day out, the terrible calm held the ship, 
and the consuming heat sapped the lives of the pent- 
up convicts. They suffered in strange patience. The 
hold was silent all day. They made no complaints. 
When the officers passed among them, and spoke to 
them, they smiled and sat still on their berths. 

Only once, there was a sound of discontent : when the 
order was given that the daily allowance of water be 
reduced to one pint. 

Among the officers of the ship, there was silence also. 
They knew they were in a latitude where calms lasted 
for long periods. They flushed the decks with water 
constantly, to try and keep them cool, for the sake of 
the prisoners below. 

“We shall need fresh water in a week,” said Captain 
Draper to Mr. Wy ville one day ; “ the tanks are low 
already, and evaporation rapidly increases.” 

Mr. Wy ville did not answer, except with an inclina- 
tion of the head. Words were useless. 

“ Where is the nearest land ? ” he asked Sheridan 
that afternoon, as they paced the poop. 

“ The island of Principe is about 200 miles to the 
South,” said Sheridan. “ There is good water there.” 

The thought in Mr. Wyville’s mind never came to 
words. As Sheridan spoke, he stopped suddenly, look- 
ing away to the North, and pointing his hand with an 
eager face. A dark line, very faint, was moving on 
the face of the glassy ocean. 

“Thank heaven!” he said, “yonder comes the 
breeze.” 

In half an hour it> fanned their faces, but so gently 
that still the sails hung useless, and the pennant only 
stirred an inch from the mast. But it was a breath — 
it was a drink. When the night fell, the breeze 
strengthened, and the ship moved. 

There was no sleep on board that night. The hearts 
of all were filled with deep relief and gratitude. The 


232 


MOONDYNE. 


breeze held for four days, growing steadier as they 
sailed. On the evening of the fourth day, a man aloft 
cried out, “ Land ho ! ” 

They had sighted Principe. From deck, the land 
was not seen for an hour later ; and the Houguemont 
stood off and on till morning, when boats would he 
sent ashore for water. 

At the first flush of dawn the ship was steered to- 
ward the island. A fog lay close to the water, and 
the eager eyes of the voyagers only saw a line of 
wooded mountain, the base and summit of which were 
rolled in mist. 

The Houguemont sailed into the fog-bank ; and be- 
fore those on hoard had time to realize the change, her 
foresails caught the sunshine, and she swung to within 
a land-locked harbor as beautiful as a dream of para- 
dise. - 

The water broke against the wooded shores all round 
the lovely haven. The hills were covered with trees 
to the top, and the cocoa palms crowded their lower 
slopes to the very shore. At the end of the harbor 
stood the little town of St. Antonio. 

The Houguemont came to anchor, and boats were 
sent ashore to fill the water-casks. The swift, clear 
streams were seen running into the beautiful basin of 
the port. 

While this work was going on, a sail-boat put off 
from the town, and held toward the vessel. There 
were three men in it, and as they came within hail of 
ship, keeping to leeward, they ran up a yellow flag. 

“ My God ! ” said Sheridan, who had been watching 
the boat ; “ they have the fever ! ” 

“ Get out as fast as you can,” cried a man in the 
boat. “ And be sure you allow no one from shore 
near the ship. We have the plague in St. Antonio.” 

Without another word, the boat’s course was changed, 
and she returned to the town. The crew of the Hou- 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


233 


guemont needed no incentive to work. By ten o’clock 
that night, the casks were filled and the ship was 
under sail. 

“ A fortunate escape ! ” said the medical officer to 
Sheridan, who did not answer, but looked at the 
pennant. The wind had changed, and was blowing 
directly from St. Antonio. 

Next morning the beautiful island was out of sight. 
The convicts got plenty of water that day, and their 
hearts were glad. Toward evening, one of the warders 
■went to the doctor’s room, and said there was a pris- 
oner very ill, who complained of nausea and pains in 
the head and shoulders. The doctor’s face grew pale 
at the word ; but he turned away from the warder. 

“ Take that man on deck at once,” he said, quietly, 
“ and place him in the punishment division forward.” 

The warder went to carry out the order. The doctor 
hurriedly consulted a book, then left his room and 
walked forward. 

The sick prisoner was there before him. The doctor 
examined him, quietly ordered his treatment, and re- 
tired. He joined Mr. Wyville on the poop. 

“We have the fever on board,” he said in a low 
voice. “ A man has been attacked by the worst 
symptoms.” 

An hour later, two more convicts complained of 
sickness. They were taken from the hold, and placed 
in the cell forward. 

Next day it was known throughout the ship that 
the fever, which the sailors and convicts called “ the 
black vomit,” was on board ; and before nightfall thirty 
prisoners were seized. 

The sick were taken away from the hold at first ; 
but this separation had soon to be abandoned. There 
was no room for them apart. The hospital was full. 
Those who took the fever had to lie side by side with 
their terror-stricken fellows. 


234 


MOONDYNE. 


Like an angel of comfort, Sister Cecilia tended on 
the sufferers. Following her steps, and quietly obey- 
ing her word, went Mr. Haggett. In the female com- 
partment, where twelve prisoners lay with the fever, 
Alice Walmsley moved ceaselessly in the work of 
mercy. 

On the third day, the chief officer of the ship said 
to Mr. Wyville, — 

“ Captain Draper has the fever.” 

The doctor, shortly after, came from the captain’s 
room, and reported that Draper had, indeed, been 
seized, but with symptoms of less virulence than the 
others. 

“ Who will attend on Captain Draper ? ” asked the 
doctor. “He will be unconscious in another hour, 
and will need care.” 

“ I will attend him,” said Mr. Wyville, after a pause; 
“ write your directions, doctor, and I will stay beside 
him to-night.” 


XII. 

HUSBAND AND WIFE. 

Hideous incidents filled the days and nights as the 
convict ship sailed southward with her burden of 
disease and death. The mortality among the convicts 
was frightful. Weakened and depressed by the long 
drought, the continuous heat, and the poisonous at- 
mosphere, they succumbed to the fever in its first 
stages. 

The dead were laid in a row on the port side, as 
they were carried from the hold. Delays of sailors 
worked at the shrouding and burial. The bodies were 
wrapped in sail-cloth, with a cannon-ball tied at the 
feet. As each corpse was hastily shrouded, it was 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


235 


passed forward, and the ghastly roll was committed to 
the deep. 

There was no time for ceremony ; hut Mr. Haggett, 
as often as he could be spared from the hold, stood 
beside the opening in the rail, where the bodies wove 
launched, and followed each dull plunge with a word 
of prayer. 

“ Mr. Sheridan,” said Mr. Wyville, as he came from 
Captain Draper’s room on the first night of his illness, 
“ will you take command of the ship until the captain’s 
recovery ? ” 

Sheridan assented ; and Mr. Wyville, calling the 
ship’s • officers to the poop, instructed them to obey 
Captain Sheridan as the commander of the vessel. 

As soon as Sheridan took command, he spread every 
inch of canvas the ship could carry, and held her be- 
fore the wind. 

“We shall shake off this fever when we clear the 
Southern tropics,” he said to Mr. Wyville. “The 
cold wind round the Cape will kill it in an hour.” 

Captain Draper lay in his stateroom, half comatose, 
muttering incoherent words in the low delirium of the 
fever. By his side sat Mr. Wyville, giving him now 
and again the medicines prescribed. 

The sick man’s face was a ghastly sight. The offen- 
siveness of the protruding eyes and cracked lips was 
hideously exaggerated. And as he lay smouldering in 
the slow fire of the sickness, he muttered things even 
more repulsive than his physical appearance. 

The female hospital of the ship was filled with suf- 
ferers — indeed the entire hold of the vessel was at 
once a hospital and charnel-house. There were no 
regular attendants among the male convicts; those 
who had not been attacked waited on those who had, 
till their own turn came. 

In the female compartment, which was separated 
from the regular hospital, Alice Walmsley had entire 


236 


MOONDYNE. 


charge. Her healthy life enabled her to bear an ex- 
traordinary strain ; day and night she was ministering 
to the stricken, and they blessed her with words and 
looks as she passed from sufferer to sufferer. The door 
leading thence to the hospital Sister Cecilia kept locked, 
and she herself carried the key. 

Sister Cecilia stood one day within the hospital, at 
the door of a small room. Kneeling before her, on the 
floor, with streaming eyes and upraised hands, as if 
praying for a life, was a woman, in the gray dress of a 
convict. 

“ O, for God’s sake let me tend them ! 0, don’t deny 
me — let me go and wait on the poor sufferers. My 
heart is breaking when I think that I might be doing 
some good. Don’t refuse — 0, don’t refuse me. I feel 
that God would pardon me if I could work out my life 
caring for others.” 

It was Harriet Draper who supplicated the nun, and 
who had besought her for days with the same ceaseless 
cry. Sister Cecilia would gladly have allowed her to 
work for the sick, but she feared that Alice would see 
her. She had been compelled for days to refuse the 
heartrending petition. 

“ You shall have your wish,” said the nun, this day, 
with a kind look at Harriet, “but not in the hos- 
pital.” 

“ Anywhere, anywhere ! ” cried Harriet, rising, with 
a wistful face ; “ only let me tend some one who is sick. 
I want to do some good.” 

“ Harriet,” said Sister Cecilia, “ you have told me 
your unhappy story, and I am sure you wish to be a 
good woman — ” 

“I do — God knows I do ! ” interrupted the unfortu- 
nate one. 

“As you hope to be forgiven, you must forgive — 
you must forgive even your husband.” 

Poor Harriet covered her face in her hands, and 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 237 

made no answer, only moved her head from side to 
side, as if in pain. 

“ Harriet, if your husband were on board this ship, 
sick and dying of the fever, would you not tend him 
and forgive him before he died ? ” 

Wild-eyed, the woman stared at Sister Cecilia, as if 
she had not understood the question. 

“He is on board — he is dying of the fever — will 
you not take care of him ? ” 

“ Oh-oh ! ” wailed Harriet, in a long cry, sinking on 
her knees and clasping Sister Cecilia’s dress. “ He 
would drive me away — he would not let me stay 
there — he does not love me ! ” 

“ But you love him — you will tend him, and you 
will forgive him. Will you not ? ” 

“ Yes, I will — I will wait on him day and night, 
and he shall recover with my nursing.” 

She dried her weeping eyes, to show the Sister her 
immediate readiness and calmness. 

“ Take me to him,” she said, with only quivering 
lips ; “ let me begin now.” 

“ Come, then,” said Sister Cecilia ; and she led Harriet 
Draper to the hatch, and aft to the captain’s quarters. 

Mr. Wyville rose as Sister Cecilia entered, followed 
by Harriet. As he did so, the sick man moved, and 
muttered something, with upraised feeble arm. 

With a low sob or cry, Harriet darted past Sister 
Cecilia, and sank beside the bed. She took the up- 
raised arm and drew it to her breast, and covered the 
feverish hand with tearful kisses. At the touch, the 
sick man ceased to wander, and turning his head, 
seemed to fall at once into a peaceful sleep. 

Harriet, seeing this, after her first emotion, turned to 
Mr. Wyville and Sister Cecilia with a smile of joy, and, 
still holding her husband’s arm to her breast, pointed 
to his restful sleep. They smiled at her in return, 
though their eyes were brimming with tears. 


238 


MOONDYNE. 


Sister Cecilia instructed her as to the attendance, 
and then withdrew, leaving the guilty and unconscious 
husband in his wife’s care. There was joy at least in 
one heart on board that night. From her low seat 
beside the bed, Harriet Draper watched his face, mur- 
muring soft and endearing words, and obeying the doc- 
tor’s instructions to the letter and second. 

“ He will recover, and he will know me,” she whis- 
pered to her heart ; “ I shall win back his love by being 
faithful and forgiving.” 

The climax of the fever would not come till the 
sixth day ; and during these days Harriet watched her 
husband with scarcely an hour’s rest. Every hour 
that passed added to his chance of recovery, as the 
ship was sailing swiftly toward the cooler latitudes. 

One day, while Harriet sat beside the bed, holding 
the feeble hand, as she loved to do, there came a lucid 
interval to her husband. She had been murmuring 
soft words as she kissed his hand, when, looking at his 
face, she met his eyes fixed upon her. For a moment 
there came a light of recognition and dismay in his 
look ; but before she could speak his name, or recall 
his memory, the light faded, and he reverted to a state 
of sluggish delirium. 

For the first time since she came to his side, a 
chill of fear pierced Harriet’s heart. For one instant 
she knew he had seen her. But there was no love 
in the look of recognition. What if the same cold stare 
should return on his recovery, and continue ? 

“ God will not let it be ! ” whispered her heart. 
“ When he recovers, he will surely love me as of old ! ” 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


239 


XIII. 

woman’s love and hatred. 

On the later days of Captain Draper’s illness he 
moaned and tumbled restlessly. One of the worst 
symptoms of the fever was its persistent hold on the 
brain. The sick man raved constantly, carried on ex- 
cited conversations, gave orders to the sailors, and, in 
the midst of these wanderings, again and again re- 
verted to one dark subject that seemed to haunt his 
inflamed mind. 

He lived over and over again, day after day, terrible 
scenes, that had surely been rehearsed in his mind be- 
fore the sickness. In his fantasy he was standing by 
the rail of the ship, while a boat was slowly lowered, 
in which sat Sheridan. As the boat swung over the 
raging sea, suspended by a rope at bow and stern, the 
bow rope parted, the boat fell perpendicularly, and 
Sheridan was flung into the ocean, and drowned. 

During this series of mental pictures, the action 
of the raving man plainly showed that his hand had 
cut the rope ; and his exultation at the completion of 
the murder was horrible to see. He would turn his 
face to the partition, away from the light, and chuckle 
with a vile sound, rubbing his hands in devilish 
delight. 

One day Mr. Wyville sat beside the bed, intending 
to relieve the tireless Harriet for a few hours. But 
Harriet still lingered in the room. 

Draper had gone once more through the hideous 
pantomime, accompanying every act with words ex- 
pressing the baleful intention. Mr. Wyville sat regard- 
ing him with compressed lips. When the horrible 
culmination had come, and the wretch chuckled over 


240 


MOONDYNE. 


his success, Mr. Wyville looked up and met Harriet’s 
fearful gaze. 

“ Curse him ! ” whispered Draper, “ he was always 
in my way. I meant it always — but this was the 
best plan. Ha ! ha ! better than pistol or poison — 
accident — ha ! ha ! drowned by accident ! ” 

“ Do you know of whom he speaks ? ” asked Mr. 
Wyville of Harriet. 

“ A man named Sheridan,” she answered ; “ he talks 
of him a great deal.” 

“ A man named Sheridan ! ” repeated Mr. Wyville to 
himself. “ She speaks as if she did not know him.” 

He sat silent for a time, his eyes fixed on the guilty 
man before him, who was unconsciously laying bare 
the foul secrets of his heart. At last he turned to 
Harriet and said, — 

“ Do you not know this man named Sheridan ? ” 

“No.” 

The answer surprised him, and he became silent 
again. Presently he sent Harriet to her rest. 

“I do not see the end,” he wearily murmured, 
when he was alone with the sick man ; “ but I fore- 
bode darkly. Providence has kept this miscreant from 
a deeper crime than he has yet committed. Heaven 
grant that he has also been preserved for repentance 
and atonement ! ” 

Mr. Wyville had resolved to be at Draper’s side 
when the hour of sanity returned, and to keep his un- 
fortunate wife out of sight until he had prepared him 
for her presence. 

It was midnight when that moment arrived. Draper 
had slept soundly for several hours. Mr. Wyville first 
knew that he had returned to consciousness by the 
movement of his hands. Presently he spoke, in a 
feeble voice. 

“ I have been sick, haven’t I ? How many days ? ” 

“ Six days.” 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


241 


“ Are we still becalmed ? ” 

“No; we are in the Southern trades.” 

Draper said no more. He moved his head from side 
to side, trying to look around the room. Mr. Wyville 
remained still and silent. 

“ Have you been here with me ? ” he asked at length. 
“ You couldn’t have been here all the time.” 

“ Not all the time.” 

“ I suppose I spoke aloud, and — and — raved about 
people ? ” 

Mr. Wyville looked suddenly at him, and caught the 
reptilian eye that watched the effect of the question. 
He was impelled to speak sooner than he had intended, 
by the cunning of the fellow. 

“Yes,” he said, keeping his powerful look on 
Draper’s face, as if he addressed his inner soul as well 
as outward sense ; “ you have told the whole villanous 
purpose of your heart. If you recover, you may thank 
God for striking you with sickness to keep you from 
murder and the murderer’s doom. Had you carried 
out your design, nothing could have saved you ; for 
there are others here who knew your history and your 
motive.” 

Draper did not answer, but lay like a scotched 
snake, perfectly still, hardly breathing, but watching 
Mr. Wyville with a cold eye. 

“Do you know who has nursed you through your 
sickness ? ” 

Draper moved his head negatively. 

“Would you like to know ?” 

He only looked more keenly at Mr. Wyville, but 
there was a light of alarm in the look. 

“ You have been cared for by one whom you have 
blighted — who owed you nothing but curses. Day 
and night she has been with you — and she has saved 
your life.” 

Still Draper did not move or speak, but only looked. 

16 


242 


MOONDYNE. 


“ You know of whom I speak,” said Mr. Wyville ; 
“ are you ready now to meet your unhappy wife, and 
to ask her forgiveness ? ” 

He had risen as he spoke — Draper’s eyes followed 
his face. The strength of manhood, even of facial 
deceit, having been drained by the fever, there was 
nothing left of Draper’s real self but his wily nature. 

As Mr. Wyville rose, the door opened slowly, and 
Harriet entered, advanced a few steps, and stood still 
in fear. She looked at her husband’s face ; for one 
instant his cold eye glanced from Mr. Wyville and took 
her in K then returned to its former direction. 

Harriet’s heart seemed to stop beating. A cold and 
despairing numbness began to creep over her. She 
foresaw the nature of the meeting — she knew now 
what would be her reception. Her limbs slowly failed 
her, and she sank on the floor, not heavily, but hope- 
lessly and dumb. Mr. Wyville, hearing the slight 
sound, turned, and read the story of despair like an 
open page. With a rush of indignation in his blood, 
almost amounting to wrath, he regarded Draper. 

“ Remember,” he Said sternly, “ your guilt is known. 
You still have one chance to escape the punishment 
you deserve. It lies in her hands.” 

He turned from the bed, and left the room. Draper 
lay motionless for several minutes, knowing that his 
victim and wife was grovelling in the room, waiting 
for his word. 

“ Come here,” he said at length, in a voice all the 
colder for its weakness. 

Harriet crept to the bed, and laid her head near his 
hand. But he did not touch her. 

“ I want to see you,” he said. 

The poor woman raised her miserable face until their 
eyes met. Hers were streaming with bitter tears. His 
were as cold and dry as a snake’s. She would have 
cried out his name ; but the freezing glitter of his eyes 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 243 

shivered her impulse, and fixed her in terrified fasci- 
nation. 

“ You and he ! ” he said slowly, as if thinking aloud. 
“ And after all, you would have been left. And so, 
I ’m in your power at last ? ” * 

It was appalling to see the lips and wasted lower 
face of the man twist into a smile, while the serpent 
glance above was intensified. 

Poor Harriet sank down slowly, the slow shudder 
creeping over her once more. Her blood had ceased 
to course in her veins at the cruel reception. She had 
no thoughts : she only felt there was no hope for 
her. 

The first love of some women is mysteriously tena- 
cious. It ceases to be a passion, and becomes a prin- 
ciple of life. It is never destroyed until life ceases. 
It may change into a torture — it may become excited 
like white-hot iron, burning the heart it binds ; or it 
may take on a lesser fire, and change into red hatred ; 
but it never grows cold — it never loses its power to 
command at a thrill the deepest motives of her 
nature. 

Through all phases but one had passed the love of 
Harriet Draper. She knew that her husband was a 
villain ; that her hideous degradation had come from 
his hand ; that he hated her now and would be rid ot 
her ; and the knowledge had only .changed her love to 
a torture, without killing it. 

But the change from white heat to fierce red is not 
infinite. It is a transition rapidly made.* At the 
white heat, the woman’s love burns herself; at the red, 
it burns the man she loves. A woman’s hatred is only 
her love on fire. 

“ I didn’t think it was you,” said Draper, making no 
pretence to deceive her; “I thought you were dead 
years ago.” 

Something stirred in Harriet’s heart, at the em- 


244 


MOONDYNE. 


phasis — something like a grain of resentment. She 
had forgotten self ; she now thought of herself, and 
of what she had gone through for this man’s sake. 

“ How did you come here ? ” he asked. “ Did — he 
bring you here ? 0, curse you, you ’ve got me in tho 

trap. Well! we ’ll see.” 

“ I have made no trap,” said Harriet; “no one brought 
me here but myself and — you. I am a prisoner.” 

Draper was evidently surprised at this news ; but it 
only momentarily checked his rancor. 

“ I suppose you robbed some one, or mur — ? ” As 
he spoke, Harriet struggled to her knees with a pitiful 
gulping sound, and clutched at the bedclothes, trying 
to gain her feet. Draper looked at her a moment and 
then continued slowly, — 

“ I suppose you robbed some one, or murdered — ” 

With a spring like a tiger, and a terrible low cry, 
Harriet was on her feet, the coverlet in her clenched 
hands, her flaming eyes on her husband’s face. 

“ Dare ! ” she hissed, “ and I will tear the tongue 
from your cruel mouth ! ” 

For half a minute the two regarded each other. In 
that half minute, the white heat of Harriet’s love be- 
came red. Hitherto, she had hated the one for whom 
Draper had deserted her, and had hated herself. How, 
for the first time, she hated him. 

“ Villain ! monster ! ” she cried, throwing the cover- 
let from her with fierce revulsion ; “ you speak of mur- 
der to the murderess you made ! O, God, God ! is 
there no lightning to strike this man dead ! Murder I 
have done in madness ” — She paused, with upraised 
hands, as if she saw a vision — “ 0, merciful God ! 
that innocent one ! ” 

Harriet staggered across the room at the first dread- 
ful thought of the bitter suffering endured by another 
for her crime. She had partially repented, it is true ; 
but, secretly, she knew that she had never pitied her 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


245 


rival. Now, she could have suddenly died with grief 
for her wrong. 

Harriet did not know that a strong hand upheld her 
as she fell, and supported her from the room. She 
recovered in the open air, and looked about her as if 
awakening from a terrible dream. Sister Cecilia came 
and led her back to her old solitary quarters in the 
hospital. 

Mr. Wyville and the doctor stood beside Draper’s 
bed. He had swooned. 

“ Is he dead ? ” 

“ No,” said the doctor ; “ he has come out of the fever 
quite strong. He will recover, unless something un- 
foreseen interfere. He is out of danger.” 


XIV. 

THE DARKNESS OF DESOLATION. 

The recovery of Captain Draper was regarded as a 
good omen by the sailors and convicts; and with a 
return of confidence to them the fever daily declined. 

The average of recoveries grew larger, and there 
were few new seizures. 

From the day of his interview with Harriet, Draper 
saw her no more. Neither did he see Mr. Wyville. 
The steward alone attended him. He was forced to 
ponder on the future, and every new possibility was 
harder to accept than the last. During those days of 
convalescence, his coward soul preyed upon by his vil- 
lanous imagination, Draper suffered almost the tor- 
ments of the damned. 

When the heartbroken Harriet recovered from the 
excitement of the dreadful interview, her soul had only 
one feeling — remorse. As one dying of thirst might 


246 


MOONDYNE. 


sit down on the burning sand, and commune with the 
devouring fire in the body, so this unhappy one sat 
upon her pallet in' the hospital room, and communed 
for hours with the newly-lighted consuming fire in her 
soul. 

At last Mr. Wyville entered the hospital, with the 
physician. He approached Harriet, and spoke in a 
low tone, such as he had used when addressing her 
once before. 

“ Do you remember me ? ” 

She looked at him in surprise, at first ; but, as she 
continued to gaze, there rose in her mind a recollection 
that brought the blood strongly from her heart. She 
clasped her hands beseechingly. 

“ I thought I had dreamt it in the cell — I did not 
know that it was real. O, sir, did you not come to me 
and speak blessed words of comfort ? Did you not say 
that he was guilty of part of my crime ? ” 

“ Yes ; it was I who visited you in Walton-le-Dale. 
I come now to say the same words — to ask you to 
save the innocent one who has borne your penalty.” 

“ Thank Heaven, it is not too late ! This moment 
let me do what is to be done. O, sir, I know now the 
whole of my crime — I never saw it till this day. I 
never pitied her nor thought of her ; but now, when I 
could ask for even God’s pardon, I dare not ask for 
hers.” 

Seeing Harriet in this repentant mind, Mr. Wyville 
lost no time in having her confession formally taken 
down and witnessed. This done, he spoke comforting 
words to Harriet, who, indeed, was relieved by the con- 
fession, and felt happier than she had been for years. 
Assembling the officers of the Convict Service in the 
cabin, immediately afterward, Mr. Wyville took his 
first step as Comptroller-General, by announcing that 
Alice Walmsey was no longer a prisoner, that her inno- 
cence had been fully established by the confession of 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 247 

the real criminal, and that henceforth she was to be 
treated respectfully as a passenger. 

When this news was given to Sister Cecilia, she al- 
most lost her placid self-control in an outburst of 
happiness. But she controlled herself, and only wept 
for very gladness. Then she started up, and almost 
ran toward her secluded room, to break the tidings to 
Alice. 

Alice was sewing when Sister Cecilia entered. She 
had acquired a habit of sewing during her long soli- 
tary confinement, and now she was happiest while 
working at a long seam. She smiled pleasantly as 
Sister Cecilia entered. 

The kind little nun almost regretted that she bore 
news that would break the calm stream of Alice’s life. 
She was happy as she was : would she be happier 
under better circumstances? would the awakened 
memories counterbalance or sink the benefit. 

“ Good news, Alice ! ” 

Alice looked up from her sewing inquiringly. 

“ Is the fever over at last ? ” .she asked. 

“ Better than that, my child,” said Sister Cecilia, sit- 
ting down beside her, and putting an arm around her 
with tender affection. “I have special good news, 
that will gladden every kind heart on the ship. One 
of our prisoners, who has been in prison a long time, 
has been proved innocent, and has been made free by 
order of the Comptroller-General ! ” 

As Sister Cecilia spoke, she still embraced Alice, 
and looked down at her face. But there was no per- 
ceptible change, except a slight contraction of the 
brow-muscles denoting awakened interest. 

“ And she, who was a poor prisoner an hour ago, is 
now a respected passenger on the Queen’s ship ! ” con- 
tinued Sister Cecilia, lightly; but in truth she was 
alarmed at Alice’s calmness. 

“ It is a woman, then ? ” said Alice. 


248 


MOONDYNE. 


“ Yes, dear ; a woman who has been nine years in 
prison, suffering for another’s crime. And that other 
has confessed — Alice ! Alice ! ” cried Sister Cecilia, 
dismayed at the effect of her words. But Alice did 
not hear; she had slipped from her seat, pale as 
marble, fainting : and were it not for the supporting 
arms of the nun she would have fallen headlong to the 
floor. 

Sister Cecilia did not alarm any one ; she was ex- 
perienced in emotional climaxes. She did the few 
things proper for the moment, then quietly awaited 
Alice’s recovery. 

In a few minutes the pale face was raised, and the 
mild eyes sought Sister Cecilia as if they asked a 
heartrending question. The little Sister did not under- 
stand the appeal ; so she only encouraged Alice by a 
kind word to regain strength. 

“ And she ! ” whispered Alice, with quivering lips, 
now speaking what she had looked; “where is she 
— the forsaken one ? ” 

“ She is on hoard, my child ; she is a prisoner, and 
a most unhappy one. She has no hope but the peace 
of atonement. God send her comfort ! ” 

“ Amen ! Amen ! ” cried Alice, laying her head on 
the Sister’s arm, and sobbing without restraint. 


XV. 

THE NEW PENAL LAW. 

There being no female passengers in the cabin of 
the Houguemont, it was decided that Alice Walmsley 
should remain in her room with Sister Cecilia till the 
end of the voyage. The only change made was in her 
dress, and this, by some strange foresight on the part 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 249 

of the little Sister, as it seemed, was quite extensively 
and fittingly provided for. 

Alice selected the quietest possible dress, and when 
she stood arrayed in it, after so many weary years in 
prison gray, she could not help glancing at her face in 
the glass, and blushing as she looked ; and at this very 
pretty and womanly moment, Sister Cecilia came upon 
her and gave a pleasant little laugh. Upon this, Alice 
blushed deeper, and turned her confused face away, 
while Sister Cecilia reached after it, and drawing it to 
the light kissed her affectionately. 

“ Why, Alice,” she said, with a provoking smile, 
“you are quite a beauty.” 

Unquestionably, even a few days without the burden 
of bondage had worked wonders in Alice’s life. She 
was no longer moody; she instantly and naturally 
began to take fresh interest in everything she saw and 
heard around her. 

The ship cleared the Tropics and raced down to- 
wards the Cape in the vigorous Southern trades. The 
blustering winds and the rough sea brought refresh- 
ment even to the feeble, and to Alice renewed strength. 
Her face lost the pallor of confinement, and her step 
became elastic. The years of her imprisonment had 
kept dormant the energies that waste with exertion. 
She began to feel as youthful and as cheerful as when 
she was a girl. 

One day she was standing beside her open window, 
looking out on the sea, when she plainly heard above 
her, on the poop deck, a voice that held her rooted to 
the spot. 

“ I cannot foresee the result ” — she heard these 
words — “ but I shall go on to the end. I have loved 
her dearly always; and I shall, at least, prove it to 
her before the dream is dispelled.” 

Alice held herself to the window, not meaning to 
listen to the words so much as to obey the strong 


250 


MOONDYNE. 


prompting of her heart to hear the honest ring of the 
voice. 

It was Will Sheridan who spoke — he stood on the 
poop with Mr. Wyville — and Alice knew the voice. 
After so many years, it came to her like a message 
from her girlhood, and bridged over the chasm in her 
life, 

No other words reached her; but the conversation 
continued for a long time ; and still she stood beside 
the window, her cheek laid on her hands, while she 
allowed the familiar tones to transport her back to 
happy scenes. 

Sister Cecilia found her so, and playfully coaxed 
her to tell her thoughts ; but Alice’s diffidence was so 
evident that the little nun sat down and laughed 
heartily. 

The voyage round the Cape had no special interest ; 
and a few weeks later the officers began their prepara- 
tions for disembarkation. The air grew balmy once 
more, and the sky cloudless. 

“We are just three hundred miles from the mouth 
of the Swan River,” said Sheridan one day to Mr. Wy- 
ville, when he had taken his observations. “Have 
you ever landed at Fremantle ? ” 

“ Yes, once — many years ago,” said Mr. Wyville, 
and he crossed the deck to observe something in the 
sea. 

Throughout the voyage, neither Sheridan nor Wy- 
ville had seen Alice Walmsley. Each in his own mind 
deemed it best to leave her undisturbed with Sister 
Cecilia. Mr. Wyville was still impressed with the 
conviction of Sheridan’s unhappy and hopeless affec- 
tion for Harriet ; but he was much perplexed by her 
forgetfulness of bis name. However, when they reached 
Australia, one day ashore would clear up matters with- 
out the pain of preliminary explanation. 

Day after day, in the mild Southern air, the ship 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


251 


glided slowly on, and still the watchers on the crowded 
deck saw no sign of land. From morning light they 
leant on the rail, looking away over the smooth sea to 
where the air was yellow with heat above the unseen 
continent. There was a warmth and pleasure in the 
promise it gave. 

The straining eyes were saved the long pain of 
watching the indistinct line. The shore of Western 
Australia is quite low, and the first sign of land are 
tall mahogany trees in the hush. The ship passed 
this first sight-line early in the night ; and next morn- 
ing, when the convicts were allowed on deck, they saw, 
only a few miles distant, the white sand and dark 
woods of their land of bondage and promise. 

The sea was as smooth as a lake, and the light air 
impelled the ship slowly. At noon they passed within 
a stone’s throw of the island of Eottenest, and every 
eye witnessed the strange sight of gangs of naked black 
men working like beavers in the sand, the island being 
used as a place of punishment for refractory natives. 

An hour later, the ship had approached within a 
mile of the pier at Fremantle. The surrounding sea 
and land were very strange and beautiful. The green 
shoal-water, the soft air, with a yellowish warmth, the 
pure white sand of the beach, and the dark green of 
the unbroken forest beyond, made a scene almost like 
fairyland. 

But there was a stern reminder of reality in the 
little town of Fremantle that lay between the forest 
and the sea. It was built of wooden houses, running 
down a gentle hill ; and in the centre of the houses, 
spread out like a gigantic star-fish, was a vast stone 
prison. 

There was a moment of bustle and noise on the deck, 
through which rang the clear commanding voice of 
Sheridan, and next moment the anchor plunged into 
the sea and the cable roared through the hawse-hole. 


252 


MOONDYNE. 


Every soul on board took a long breath of relief at the 
end of the voyage. 

A tug was seen coming from the wharf, the deck of 
which was crowded. At its mast-head floated the gov- 
ernor’s flag. On the deck was the governor of the Col- 
ony with his staff, and a host of convict officers from 
the prison. 

The tug steamed alongside, and the governor came 
on board the convict ship. He wore a blue tunic, with 
epaulettes like a naval officer, white trousers, and a 
cocked hat. He greeted Mr. Wyville with official 
welcome on account of his position, and warmly ex- 
pressed his admiration of his philanthropy. 

“ I understand you bring us a new penal system,” 
said the governor. “ I hope it is a stronger one than 
that we have.” 

“ It certainly is stronger,” said Mr. Wyville, “ for it 
is milder and juster.” 

“Well, well,” said the governor, who was a testy old 
general, “ I hope you won’t spoil them. They need a 
stiff hand. Now, I suppose you want those warders 
from the prison to get your crowd into order for land- 
ing. Shall I order them on board ? ” 

Mr. Wyville had been looking down on the tug, ob- 
serving the officers, who were a rough crew, each one 
carrying a heavy cane or whip, as well as a pistol in 
the belt, and a sword. He turned with a grave face 
to the governor. 

“ Your Excellency, I am sure, will see the wisdom 
of beginning with our new code at once. We have 
here the best opportunity to emphasize its first prin- 
ciples. Shall I proceed ? ” 

“ By all means, sir ; you have absolute control of 
your department. I shall watch your method with 
interest.” 

At his order, the warders boarded the ship, formed 
in line, and saluted. Mr. Wyville descended from the 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


253 


poop, and carefully inspected them as they stood in 
rank. 

“ Go to the steward/’ he said to the chief warder, as 
he came to the end of the line, “ and get from him a 
large basket.” 

The man was astonished, but he promptly obeyed. 
In a minute he returned with a capacious hamper. 

“ Begin on the right,” said Mr. Wyville, in curt 
tones, “ and place in that hamper your pistols, swords, 
canes, and whips.” 

The warders scarcely believed their ears ; but they 
obeyed. 

“Now listen!” said Mr. Wyville, and his voice 
thrilled the warders with its depth and earnestness. 
“ I am going to read for you the new law of this colony, 
of which you are the officers. Its first word is, that 
if any of you strike or maltreat a prisoner, you shall 
be arrested, discharged, and imprisoned.” 

The warders fairly gasped with astonishment. The 
old governor, who had listened attentively at first, 
opened his eyes wide, then nodded his head in de- 
cided approval. 

Mr. Wyville read the heads of the new law, empha- 
sizing the mild points. As he proceeded, the faces of 
the warders lost all expression but one of blank amaze- 
ment. The entire meaning of the law w r as that con- 
victs were expected to rise from bad to good, rather 
than descend from bad to worse. In other words, 
it was a law meant for reformation, not for ven- 
geance. 

In passing along the line, Mr. Wyville’s eye rested 
on a silver medal worn by one of the warders. He 
looked at it keenly. 

“ What is that medal for ? ” he asked. 

“For the mutiny of two years ago,” said the chief 
warder ; “ this officer killed three mutineers.” 

“Take that medal off,” said Mr. Wyville to the 


254 


MOONDYNE. 


warder, “and never put it on again. We are to have 
no more mutiny.” 

The warders were then dismissed from the rank, and 
instructed to go below and get the convicts in order 
for disembarkation. As they departed, Mr. Wyville 
gave them one word more. 

“Remember, you are dealing with men , not with 
brutes — with men who have rights and the protection 
of law.” 

When they had disappeared into the hold, the old 
governor shook Mr. Wyville warmly by the hand. 

“ By the lord Harry, sir, this is excellent,” he said, 
heartily. “This d — d colony has been a menagerie 
long enough. If you succeed with your system, we ’ll 
make it a civilized country at last.” 


XVI. 

A PRISONER AT LARGE. 

The disembarkation of the convicts was a novel 
scene to them, and to the officers directing their 
movements. The absence of shouting and violence 
made it quite unprecedented to the warders. The con- 
victs reached the wharf on barges, and marched in 
single file up the little street leading to the great gate 
of the prison of Fremantle. 

Inside the gate, in the centre of an immense yard or 
walled sand-plain, the governor and comptroller-general 
stood ; and as the long line of convicts filed by, each 
saluted in military fashion, and passed on to the 
prison. 

It was late in the afternoon when the last convict 
passed. The governor was about to leave the ground, 
when his attention was called to one more stranger 


THE CONVICT SHIP. 


255 


from the ship, who approached. It was Captain 
Draper. He walked slowly, as if still feeble from his 
illness ; but he was carefully dressed, and was really 
much more vigorous than he pretended. He raised 
his hat to the governor as he approached, and received 
a curt return of the salute, followed by a cold stare. 
The governor had looked into Captain Draper’s case 
that forenoon. 

“ Shall I retain the crew, your Excellency ? ” said 
Draper, with an obsequious smile ; “ or is the ship to 
go out of commission for the present ? ” 

“ I don’t know, sir,” said the stiff old governor, not 
hiding his dislike and contempt ; “ and I don’t care, 
sir. The ship belongs to the convict department.” He 
turned on his heel as he spoke. 

“ Captain Draper,” said Mr. Wyville, in an official 
tone, “ you are relieved of your command. The ship 
goes out of commission.” 

Draper’s face was a study of disappointment at the 
news. 

“ The crew will remain — ” he began. 

“ The crew will he taken to Adelaide on my yacht, 
which will arrive this week.” 

“ Shall I have quarters on hoard ? ” asked Draper, 
with an alarmed look. 

“Ho, sir,” said Mr. Wyville shortly. “You must 
seek some other means of transport.” 

“ But,” said Draper, imploringly, “ there are no ships 
in the colony, nor are any expected. I shall have to 
remain here.” 

“ True,” said the governor, who enjoyed the scene. 
“ There will be no visitors here for twelve months to 
come, nor any means of leaving.” 

Draper looked from one to the other of the men be- 
fore him ; but he drew no gleam of satisfaction from 
their faces. He began to feel a sinking of the heart, 
such as all cowards feel in the presence of danger. He 


256 


MOONDYNE. 


instinctively knew that his cunning had been over- 
reached, and was useless. He knew not where to look 
for the hand that had played against him ; but through 
every nerve the knowledge rushed on him that he had 
been overmastered by a superior intelligence — that he 
was beaten, discovered, and impotent. 

This knowledge came suddenly, but it came over- 
whelmingly. At one glance he saw that he had been . 
led into a trap, and that the door had just closed. He 
turned to Mr. Wyville, crestfallen. 

“ If you refuse to let me go on the steamer, I might 
as well be a prisoner here.” 

“ Precisely,” said Mr. Wyville. 

“ Except that you will be a prisoner at large,” said 
the governor. “ There is a saying in this colony,” he 
added laughingly to Mr. Wyville, “that there are only 
two classes here — the people who are in prison, and 
the people who ought to be. Come, now, the horses 
are waiting ; we have a ride of ten miles to Perth be- 
fore we get dinner.” 

The governor, Mr. Wyville, and the gentlemen of 
the staff moved off, leaving Captain Draper alone in 
the centre of the prison yard. He regarded them with 
baleful eyes till they went through the gate and dis- 
appeared. Then he followed, emerged from the gate, 
and was directed by one of the prison guard to an inn 
or public house for ticket-of-leave men, where he took 
up his residence. 


BOOK FIFTH. 


THE YALLEY OF THE YASSE. 


I. 

ALICE WALMSLEY’S NEW HOME. 

The little town of Fremantle, with its imposing cen- 
tre, the great stone prison, is built on the shore, within 
the angle formed by the broad Swan River as it flows 
calmly into the calm sea. At its mouth, the Swan 
is about two miles wide. The water is shallow, and as 
clear as crystal, showing, from the high banks, the 
brown stones and the patches of white sand on the 
bottom. The only ripple ever seen on its face, except 
in the rainy season, is the graceful curve that follows 
the stately motion of the black swans, which have 
made the beautiful river their home, and have given it 
its name. 

One mile above the mouth of the river, where the 
gloomy cliff hangs over the stream, are situated the 
terrible stone-quarries of Fremantle, where the chain- 
gang works. Many a time, from the edge of the over- 
hanging cliff, a dark mass had been seen to plunge into 
the river, which is very deep at this point. After this, 
there was one link missing in the chains at night, 
and there was little stir made and few questions asked. 
Hot one swimmer in a thousand could cross a mile of 
water with fifty pounds of iron chained to his ankles. 

For ten miles above Fremantle, the Swan winds in 
17 


258 


MOONDYNE. 


and out among the low hills and the wooded valleys. 
Its course is like a dream of peace. There is never a 
stone in its bed great enough to break the surface into 
a whirl or ripple. Jts water turns no busy wheels. 
Along its banks are seen no thriving homesteads. 
Here and there, in the shallows, a black man, with 
upraised spear, stands still as an ebony statue, while 
his wives and children sit upon the shaded rocks on 
the shore, and silently watch his skilful fishing. Pres- 
ently, without a quiver of warning, the statue moves 
its arm, the long spear is driven under water like a 
flash, and is raised to bear ashore its prize of a wide- 
backed plaice. Along the wooded banks, the kangaroo 
nibbles the fresh grass, and the bright-skinned carpet- 
snake dives into the pleasant water, that has become 
almost his second home. 

On a lovely bend of the river, ten miles from its 
mouth, stands the little city of Perth, the capital of 
the Penal Colony, and the residence of the governor. 
It is a petty town to-day, of four or five thousand 
people ; it was much smaller at the date of our story. 
The main building, as in all West Australian towns, is 
the prison ; the second is the official residence, a very 
spacious and sightly mansion. 

Just outside the town, on a slope of exquisite lawn, 
running down to the river, stood a long, low building, 
within a high enclosure. This was the Convent of the 
Sisters of Mercy, where the children of the colony were 
educated. 

In the porch of the convent one evening, some two 
weeks after the arrival of the ffouguemont, sat Alice 
Walmsley, Sister Cecilia, and two growing girls from 
the convent school. 

“ Yes,” said Alice, in answer to some remark of the 
nun, “ this is, indeed, a scene of utter rest. But,” she 
added, sadly, “ it is not so for most of those who see 
what we see. There is no rest for — ” 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 


259 


“ The wicked, Alice,” said one of the school-girls, the 
daughter of a free settler. “ Neither should there be. 
Why do you always pity the convicts so ? One would 
think you ought to hate them.” 

The other girl stood beside Alice’s chair, touching 
her soft hair with her hand in a caressing manner. 

“ Alice couldn’t hate even the convicts,” she said, 
bending to smile in Alice’s face. 

It was evident that the loving nature was fully 
alive, and sending out already its tendrils to draw 
toward it everything within its reach. Sister Cecilia 
smiled kindly as she heard the girls, and saw their 
expressions of love for Alice. She, however, changed 
the subject. 

“ Mr. Wyville’s yacht, with Mr. Hamerton and 
Mr. Sheridan, will return from Adelaide next week,” 
she said to Alice. “ Here is the report in the Freman- 
tle Herald .” 

Alice turned her head as if interested in the news. 
Sister Cecilia continued reading. 

“ And then they will start for Mr. Wyville’s home 
in the Vasse.” 

Alice silently sank back in her chair. Her eyes 
slowly withdrew from the newspaper in her friend’s 
hand, and settled far away on the other side of the 
Swan, in a waking dream — and a dream that was not 
content. A few moments later she rose, and said she 
would walk home early that evening. 

“ You like your new home and friends ? ” said Sister 
Cecilia, not trying to detain her, though the girls did. 
“ I thought it would be pleasanter and more natural to 
you than our monotonous convent life.” 

“ They are very kind,” said Alice ; “ and I love to 
work in the dairy and among the children. It reminds 
me of my own dear old home in England.” 

She said the words without pain, though her eyes 
filled with tears. 


260 


MOONDYNE. 


“ My good Alice ! ” said Sister Cecilia, taking her 
face between her hands in the old way ; “ I am so 
happy to hear you say that. Come, girls, let us walk 
to Mr. Little’s farm with Alice.” 

With characteristic wisdom and kindness, Sister 
Cecilia had obtained for Alice, shortly after their ar- 
rival, a home in a rich settler’s family. Her mind, so 
recently freed . from the enforced vacancy, became in- 
stantly filled with new interests, and her life at once 
took root in the new country. 

When she had been settled so for about a fortnight, 
and was becoming accustomed to the new routine, she 
received a letter from Will Sheridan. She knew it 
was from him ; but she did not open it among the 
children. When her duties for the day were done, she 
walked down toward the convent, which was only half 
a mile away ; but when she came to the tall rocks be- 
side the river, where she was utterly alone, she opened 
and read her letter. 

It was a simple and direct note, saying “ Good-by 
for a time,” that he was going to Adelaide to leave the 
crew r of the convict ship there ; but he should call on 
her, “ for the old 4 time’s sake,” when he returned. 

Alice read the letter many times, and between each 
reading her eyes rested on the placid river. Once be- 
fore, she had been haunted with the last words of his 
letter, “ Yours faithfully ; ” and now she repeated and 
repeated the one sentence that was not prosaic — “I 
will come for the old time’s sake.” 

A few weeks later she received a letter from him, 
written in Adelaide, telling her of the voyage, and 
stating the time of their probable return to Fremantle. 
Alice could not help the recurring thought that he was 
thinking of her. 

One day, at dinner, Mr. Little spoke to her about the 
voyage. 

“ You brought us back a man we wanted in this 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 


261 


colony, Miss Walmsley,” he said ; “ the man who has 
made the country worth living in.” 

“ Mr. Wyville — yes,” said Alice confidently ; “ he 
could ill be spared from any country.” 

“No, I don’t mean Wyville; I mean Mr. Sheridan 
- - Agent Sheridan, we call him.” 

* Yes, sir,” said Alice, her eyes lowered to the table. 

‘ He ’s the cleverest man that ever came to this 
colony,” said the well-meaning farmer ; “ I hope he ’ll 
get married and settle down here for life.” 

“ 0, Sam, who could he marry in the West ? There 
is no one here,” said the farmer’s wife. 

“ Nonsense,” said Mr. Little ; “ there ’s the gov- 
ernor’s daughter for one, and there are plenty more. 
And don’t you know, the governor is going to give 
Mr. Sheridan a grand dinner, in the name of the 
Colony, when he comes back from Adelaide ? ” 

Throughout the dinner Alice was particularly atten- 
tive to the children, and did not eat much herself. 

“ Mr. Wyville is coming ‘here to-morrow,” said Mr. 
Little, presently. “ He wants to buy that meadow be- 
low the convent, to put up another school. He ’s a 
good man that, too, Miss Walmsley ; but the other 
man knows the needs of this colony, and has taught 
them to us.” 

“ Mr. Wyville is a man whose whole life seems given 
to benefit others,” said Alice, quite heartily ; and she 
joined the conversation in his praise, telling many in- 
cidents of his care for the prisoners on the journey. 

But, though Farmer Little again and again returned 
to the praise of Sheridan, who was his man of men, 
Alice sat silent at these times, and earnestly attended 
to the wants of the children. 


262 


MOONDYNE. 


II. 

SOONER OR J ATER, A MAN MUST FACE HIS SINS. 

The inn where Draper had taken up his residence, 
known as “ The Red Hand,” was one of the common 
taverns of the country, the customers of which were 
almost entirely of the bond class, ticket-of-leave men, 
working as teamsters or wood-cutters, with a slight 
sprinkling of the lowest type of free settler. The main 
purpose of every man who frequented the place was to 
drink strong liquor, mostly gin and brandy. The house 
existed only for this, though its sign ran : “ Good Vic- 
tuals and Drink for Man and Beast.” But whatever 
food was eaten or sleep taken there was simply a means 
toward longer and deeper drinking. 

Champagne, too, was by no means unknown. Indeed, 
it was known to have been swilled from stable buckets, 
free to all comers to the house. This was when a crowd 
of sandalwood-cutters or mahogany sawyers had come 
in from the bush to draw their money for a year, or 
perhaps two or three years’ work. These rough fellows, 
released from the loneliness of the forest, their pockets 
crammed with money, ran riot in their rude but gener- 
ous prodigality. 

There was no other way to have a wild time. In a 
free country, men who have honest money and want to 
spend it may do as they please. But, in Western Aus- 
tralia, the free-handed, and, for the time, wealthy ticket- 
of-leave man, can only drink and treat with drink, 
taking care that neither he nor his companions are 
noisy or violent or otherwise ostentatious. The first 
sign of disturbance is terribly checked by the police. 

Draper’s introduction to this strange company was 
most favorable to him. He w T as known to be the cap- 
tain of the convict ship ; and every frequenter of “ The 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 


263 


Red Hand ” was ready to treat him with respect. This 
is one of the unexpected purities of convict life : it 
never loses its respect for honor and honesty. 

But Draper had no power to keep this respect. In 
the first place, he did not believe in its existence — he 
was too shallow and mean of nature to think that these 
rugged fellows were other than vicious rascals all 
through, who sneered at morality. He felt a sense of 
relief as soon as he found himself among them, as if he 
had at last escaped from the necessity of keeping up a 
pretence of honesty or any other virtue. 

Acting under this conviction, Draper let loose his 
real nature in the convicts’ tavern. He did not drink 
very deeply, because he was not able ; hut he talked 
endlessly. He joined group after group of carousing 
wood-cutters, keeping up a stream of ribaldry and de- 
pravity, until, after a few days’ experience, the roughest 
convicts in the place looked at him with disappointment 
and aversion. 

Then a rumor crept to the inn, a story that was left 
behind by the sailors of the Houguemont , of Harriet’s 
confession on hoard ship, exposing the heartless villany 
of Draper. When this news became current at the inn, 
the ticket-of-leave men regarded Draper with stern 
faces, and no man spoke to him or drank with him. 

One evening he approached a group of familiar 
loungers, making some ingratiatory remark. No one 
answered, but all conversation ceased, the men sitting 
in grim silence over their glasses. 

“ Why, mates, you ’re Quakers,” said Draper, rally- 
ing them. 

“We ’re no mates of yours,” growled a big fellow 
with a mahogany face. 

“And we don’t want to be,” said a slighter and 
younger man, with pronounced emphasis. 

“ Why, what ’s the matter ? ” asked Draper, in a 
surprised and injured tone. “ Have I done anything 


264 


MOONDYNE. 


to offend you fellows? Have I unconsciously said 
something to hurt your feelings by alluding to your ” 

“ Shut up, you miserable rat,” cried one of the con- 
victs, starting to his feet indignantly ; “ you couldn’t 
hurt our feelings by any of your sneaking' allusions. 
We ’re not afraid to hear nor say what we are ; but we 
have just found out what you are, and we want you 
never to speak to us again. Do you understand ? We 
are men, though we are convicts, and we only want to 
talk to men ; but you are a cowardly hound.” 

Draper’s jaw had fallen as he listened ; but he backed 
from the table, and gained confidence as he remem- 
bered that these men were wholly at the mercy of the 
police, and would not dare go any further. 

“ You are an insolent jail-bird,” he said to the 
speaker ; “ I ’ll see to you within an hour ” 

At this, one of the men who sat at the end of the 
table nearest Draper leant toward him, and taking his 
glass from the table, cast its contents into his face. 

“ Get out ! ” he said ; and without noticing him 
further, the ticket-of-leave men resumed their con- 
viviality. 

Burning with wrath, Draper left the tavern, and 
walked rapidly down the street toward the police 
station. As he left the inn,' a tall man, who had sat 
at a side table unnoticed, rose and followed him. Half 
way down the street he overtook him. 

“ Hello, Preacher ! ” said Draper, giving a side- 
glance of dislike at the man, and increasing his speed 
to pass him. But Mr. Haggett, for it was he, easily 
kept by his shoulder, and evidently meant to stay 
there. 

“ Hello, Pilferer ! ” retorted Haggett, with a move- 
ment of the lip that was expressive and astonish- 
ing. 

Draper slackened his pace at once, but he did not 
stop. He glanced furtively at Haggett, wondering 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 


265 


what he meant. Haggett ploughed along, but said no 
more. 

“ What title was that you gave me ? ” asked Draper, 
plucking up courage as he thought of the friendlessness 
of the timid Scripture-reader. 

“ You addressed me by my past profession,” answered 
Haggett, looking straight ahead, “ and I called you by 
your present one.” 

“ What do you mean, you miserable — ” 

Mr. Haggett’s bony hand on Draper’s collar closed 
the query with a grip of prodigious power and sugges- 
tiveness. Haggett then let him go, making no further 
reference to the interrupted offence. 

“ You ’re going to report those men at the tavern, 
are you ? ” asked Haggett. 

“Iam — the scoundrels. I ’ll teach them to respect 
a free man.” • 

“ Why are they not free men ? ” 

“Why? Because they’re convicted robbers and 
murderers, and — ” 

“ Yes ; because they were found out. Well, I ’ll go 
with you to the station, and have another thief dis- 
covered.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” asked Draper, standing on 
the road ; “ is that a threat ? ” 

“ I mean that those men in the tavern are drinking 
wine stolen from the Houguemont y and sold to 
the inn-keeper by — the person who had charge of 
it.” 

Draper’s dry lips came together and opened again, 
several times, but he did not speak. He was suffering 
agonies in this series of defeats and exposures. He 
shuddered again at the terrible thought that some 
unseen and powerful hand was playing against him. 

“ Mr. — Reader,” he said at last, holding out his 
hand with a sickly smile, “have I offended you or 
injured you ? ” 


266 


MOONDYNE. 


Haggett looked at the proffered hand until it fell 
back to Draper’s side. 

“ Yes,” he answered, “ a person like you offends and 
injures all decent people.” 

Without a pretence of resentment, the crestfallen 
Draper retraced his steps towards the tavern. Mr. 
Haggett stood and watched him. On his way, Draper 
resolved to leave Fremantle that evening, and ride 
to Perth, where he would live much more quietly than 
he had done here. He saw the mistake he had- made, 
and he would not repeat it. 

He quietly asked the landlord for his bill, and gave 
directions for his trunks to be forwarded next day. He 
asked if he could have a horse that night. 

“ Certainly,” said the landlord, an ex-convict him- 
self ; “ but you must show me your pass.” 

“ What pass ? I ’m a free man.” 

“ 0, I ’m not supposed to know what you are,” said 
the landlord ; “ only I ’m not allowed to let horses to 
strangers without seeing their passes.” 

“ Who grants these passes ? ” 

“ The Comptroller-General, and he is at Perth. But 
he ’ll be here in a day or two.” 

Draper cursed between his teeth as he turned 
away. 

A short man, in a blue coat with brass buttons, who 
had heard this conversation, addressed him as he 
passed the bar. 

“ There ain’t no fear of your getting lost, Captain 
Draper. They take better care of a man here than we 
used to in Walton-le-Dale.” 

Draper stared at the speaker as if he saw an appari- 
tion. There, before him, with a smile that had no 
kindness for him, was Officer Lodge, who had known 
him since boyhood. His amazement was complete; 
he had not seen Ben Lodge on the voyage, the latter 
having quietly avoided his eye. 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 267 

“ Why, old friend,” he said, holding out his hand 
with a joyful lower-face, “ what brings you here ? ” 

Instead of taking his hand, Ben Lodge took his 
“ glass a’ hale ” from the counter, and looked steadily 
at Draper. 

“ That ’s the foulest hand that ever belonged to 
Walton,” said the old man. 

Draper was about to pass on, with a “ pshaw,” when 
Ben Lodge stopped him with a word. 

“ Maybe you wouldn’t want to go to Perth so bad if 
you knew who was there.” 

“ Who is there ? ” 

“ Alice Walmsley — free and happy, thank Heaven ! 
Do you want to see her ? ” 

Draper stepped close to the old man with a deadly 
scowl. 

“ Be careful,” he hissed, stealing his hand toward 
Ben’s throat, “ or ” 

A long black hand seized Draper’s fingers as they 
moved in their stealthy threat, and twisted them al- 
most from the sockets ; and, standing at his shoulder, 
Draper found a naked bushman, holding a spear. It 
was Ngarra-jil, whom he did not recognize in his native 
costume, which, by the way, at first, too, had greatly 
shocked and disappointed Officer Lodge and Mr. 
Haggett. 

“ There’s some one else from Walton will be m Perth 
by-and-by,” continued Ben Lodge, with a smile at 
Draper’s discomfiture ; “ and, let me tell you before- 
hand, Samuel Draper, if he lays eyes on you in that 
’ere town, you ’ll be sorry you didn’t die of the black 
womit.” 

Without a look to either side Draper strode from the 
tavern, and walked toward a hill within the town, 
which he climbed. He sat him down on the summit, 
amid the rough and dry salt-grass. He was shaken to 
the place where his soul might have been. He felt that 


268 


MOONDYNE. 


lie could not move tongue nor hand without discovery. 
The cunning that had become almost intellectual from 
long use was worthless as chaff. His life recoiled on 
him like a hissing snake, and bit him horribly. Before 
his death, he was being judged and put in hell. 

He sat hidden in the salt-grass, among the vermin 
of the hill, until the night had long fallen. The stars 
had come out in beautiful clearness ; but he did not 
see them. He only saw the flame of the sins that had 
found him out, as they burned in their places along his 
baleful career. When the sea-wind came in, damp and 
heavy, and made him cough, for his chest was weak, 
he rose and crept down toward the tavern, to spe^d the 
remaining hours of the night on his bed of torture. 


III. 

WALKING IN THE SHADOW. 

There was nothing apparent in the possibilities of 
Alice Walmsley’s new life to disturb the calm flow of 
her returning happiness. Even her wise and watch- 
ful friend, Sister Cecilia, smiled hopefully as she ven- 
tured to glance into the future. 

But when the sky was clearest, the cloud came up 
on the horizon, though at first it was “ no larger than a 
man’s hand.” 

The visits of Mr. Wyville to Farmer Little’s pleasant 
house were frequent and continuous. Mr. Little’s col- 
onial title was Farmer ; but he was a gentleman of 
taste, and had a demesne and residence as extensive as 
an English duke. He was hospitable, as all rich Aus- 
tralians are ; and he was proud to entertain so distin- 
guished a man as Mr. Wyville. 

Gravely and quietly, from his first visit, Mr. Wyville 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 269 

had devoted his attention to Alice Walmsley, and in 
such a manner that his purpose should not be misun- 
derstood by Mr. Little or his wife. Indeed, it was 
quite plain to them long before it was dreamt of by 
Alice herself. From the first, she had been treated as 
a friend by these estimable people ; but after a while 
she began to observe something in their manner that 
puzzled her. They were no less kind than formerly ; 
but they grew a little strange, as if they had not quite 
understood her position at first. 

Alice could discover no reason for any change ; so 
she went on quietly from day to day. Mr. Wyville 
always drew her info conversation when he came there ; 
and with him she found herself as invariably talking 
on subjects which no one else touched, and which she 
understood perfectly. It seemed as if he held a key 
to her mind, and instinctively knew the lines of re- 
flection she had followed during her years of intense 
solitude. Alice herself would have forgotten these re- 
flections had they not been brought to her recollection. 
Now, they recurred to her pleasantly, there are so few 
persons who have any stock of individual thought to 
draw upon. 

She took a ready and deep interest in every plan of 
Mr. Wyville for the benefit of the convicts ; and he, 
seeing this, made his purposes, even for many years 
ahead, known to her, and advised with her often on 
changes that might here and there be made. 

One evening, just at twilight, when the ladies of the 
family were sitting under the wide verandah, looking 
down on the darkened river, Mrs. Little pleasantly but 
slyly said something that made Alice’s cheeks flame. 
Alice raised her face with a pained and reproachful 
look. 

“ There now, Alice,” said the lady, coming to her 
with a kind caress; “you mustn’t think it strange. 
We can’t help seeing it, you know.” 


270 


MOONDYNE. 


“ What do you see ? ” asked Alice in bewilderment. 

“ Mr. Wyville’s devotion, dear. We are all delighted 
to think of your marriage with so good and eminent a 
man.” 

Alice sank back in her chair, utterly nerveless. It 
was so dark they did not see her sudden paleness. 
She held the arms of her chair with each hand, and 
was silent for so long a time that Mrs. Little feared 
she had wounded her. 

“ Forgive me if I have pained you, Alice,” she said 
kindly. 

“ O, no, no ! ” said Alice, with quivering lips ; “ I 
thank you with all my heart. I did not know — I did 
not think — ” 

She did not finish the sentence. Mrs. Little, seeing 
that her rallying had had quite another effect from 
that intended, came to Alice’s aid by a sudden excla- 
mation about the beauty of the rising moon. This was 
successful ; for ten minutes every eye was turned on 
the lovely crescent that rose, as bright as burnished 
silver, above the dark line of forest. In the midst of 
this admiration, Alice slipped away from the happy 
group, and spent the evening alone in her own room. 

A few days later, she sat in the arbor of the convent 
garden, while Sister Cecilia watered her flower-beds. 
Sitting so, her mind went reaching back after one 
memorable incident in her life. And by some chance, 
the already-vibrating chord was touched at that mo- 
ment by the little nun. 

“ Here is my first rose-bud, Alice,” she said, coming 
into the arbor ; “ see how pretty those two young leaves 
are.” 

Alice’s eyes were suffused with tears as she bent her 
head over the lovely bud. It appealed to her now, in 
the midst of her happiness, with unspeakable tender- 
ness of recollection. She held it to her lips, almost 
prayerful, so moved that she could not speal£ 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 


271 


“ Only think,” continued Sister Cecilia, “ for nine 
months to come we shall never want for roses and 
buds. Ah me ! I think we value them less for their 
plenty. It ’s a good thing to visit the prison now and 
again, isn’t it, Alice ? We love rose-buds all the better 
for remembering the weeds.” 

Alice raised her head, and looked her eloquent as- 
sent. at Sister Cecilia. 

“ I love all the world better for the sweet rose-bud 
you gave me in prison,” she said. 

Sister Cecilia seemed puzzled for a moment, and 
then she smiled as if she recalled something. 

“ It was not I who gave you that- rose-bud, Alice.” 

Alice’s face became blank with disappointment: 
her hands sank oh her knees. 

“ 0, do not say that it was left there by accident or 
by careless hands. I cannot think of that. I have 
drawn so much comfort from the belief that your kind 
heart had read my unhappiness, and had discovered 
such a sweet means of sending comfort. Do not break 
down my fancies now. If you did not give it me, you 
prompted the act ? You knew of it. Sister, surely you 
did?” 

“No. I did not know of it until it was done. I 
should never have thought of it. It was thought of 
by one whose whole life seems devoted to others and 
to the Divine Master. Do not fear that careless hands 
put the flower in your cell, Alice. It was placed there 
by Mr. Wyville.” 

By Mr. Wyville ! ” 

“ Yes, dear ; it was Mr. Wyville’s own plan to win 
you back to the beautiful world. I thought you knew 
it all the time.” 

“ It was nearly five years ago ; how could Mr. Wy- 
ville have known ? ” There was a new earnestness in 
Alice’s face as she spoke. 

“ He had learned your history in Millbank from the 


272 


MOONDYNE. 


governor and the books ; and he became deeply in- 
terested. It was he who first said you were innocent, 
long before he proved it; and it was he who first 
asked me to visit you in your cell.” 

Alice did not speak; but she listened with a look 
almost of sadness, yet with close interest. 

“ He was your friend, Alice, when you had no other 
friend in the world,” continued Sister Cecilia, not look- 
ing at Alice’s face, or she would have hesitated ; “ for 
four years he watched your case, until at last he found 
her whose punishment you had borne so long.” 

“ Where did he find her ? ” Alice asked, after a pause. 

“He found her in the jail of your native village, 
W alton-le-Dale. ” 

“ Walton-le-Dale !” repeated Alice in surprise; “he 
took much trouble, then, to prove that I was inno- 
cent” 

“ Yes ; and he did it all alone.” 

“Mr. Sheridan, perhaps, could have assisted him. 
He was born in Walton,” said Alice, in a very low voice. 

“Yes, Mr. Sheridan told me so when he gave me 
the package for you at Portland ; but he was here in 
Australia all the years Mr. Wyville was searching for 
poor wretched Harriet. But come now, Alice, we will 
leave that gloomy old time behind us in England. 
Let us always keep it there, as our Australian day 
looks backward and sees the English night.” 

Soon after, Alice started to return to her home. 
She lingered a long time by the placid river, the par- 
ticulars she had heard recurring to her and much dis- 
turbing her peace. In the midst of her reflections 
she heard her name called, and looking toward the 
road, saw Mr. Wyville. She did not move, and he 
approached. 

“I have come to seek you,” he said, “and to pre- 
pare you to meet an old friend.” 

She looked at him in surprise, without speaking. 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 


273 


“Mr. Sheridan has just returned from Adelaide,” 
he said ; “ and you were the first person he asked for. 
I was not aware that you knew him.” 

There was no tone in his voice that betrayed dis- 
quiet or anxiety. He was even more cheerful than 
usual. 

“ I am glad you know Mr. Sheridan,” he continued ; 
“ he is a fine fellow ; and I fear he has been very 
unhappy.” 

“ He has been very busy,” she said, looking down at 
the river; “men have a great deal to distract them 
from unhappiness.” 

“ See that jagged rock beneath the w r ater,” he said, 
pointing to a stone, the raised point of which broke 
the calm surface of the river. “ Some poet likens a 
man’s sorrow to such a stone. When the flood comes, 
the sweeping rush of enterprise or duty, it is buried ; 
but in the calm season, it will rise again to cut the 
surface, like an ancient pain.” 

Alice followed the simile with eye and mind. 

“ I did not think you read poetry,” she said with a 
smile, as she rose from her seat on the rocks. 

“ I have not read much,” he said — and his face was 
flushed in the setting sun — “ until very recently.” 

As they walked together toward the house, Alice 
returned to the subject first in her mind. With a 
gravely quiet voice she said, — 

“ Mr. Sheridan’s unhappiness is old, then ? ” 

“ Yes ; it began years ago, when he was little more 
than a boy.” 

Alice was silent. She walked slowly beside Mr. 
Wyville for a dozen steps. Then she stopped as if 
unable to proceed, and laying her hand on a low branch 
beside the path, turned to him. 

“ Mr. Wyville,” she said, “ has Mr. Sheridan told you 
the cause of his unhappiness ? ” 

“ He has,” he replied, astonished at the abrupt ques- 

ts 


274 


MOONDYNE. 


tion ; “ it is most unfortunate, and utterly hopeless. 
Time alone can heal the deep wound. He has told me 
that you knew him years ago : you probably know the 
sad story.” 

“ I do not know it,” she said, supporting herself by 
the branch. 

“ He loved a woman with a man’s love while yet a 
boy,” he said ; “ and he saw her lured from him by a 
villain, who blighted her life into hopeless ruin.” 

* “ Does he love her still ? ” asked Alice, her face 
turned to the darkened bush. 

“ He pities her ; for she is wretched and — guilty.” 

At the word, Alice let go the branch and stood 
straight in the road. 

“ Guilty ! ” she said in a strange voice. 

“ Miss Walmsley, I am deeply grieved at having in- 
troduced this subject. But I thought you knew — 
Mr. Sheridan, I thought, intimated as much. The 
woman he loved is the unhappy one for whom you suf- 
fered. Her husband is still alive, and in this country. 
I brought him here, to give him, when she is released, 
a chance of atonement.” 

A light burst on Alice’s mind as Mr. Wyville spoke, 
and she with difficulty kept from sinking. She reached 
for the low branch again ; but she did not find it in 
the dark. To preserve her control, she walked on 
toward the house, though her steps were hurried and 
irregular. 

Mr. Wyville, thinking that her emotion was caused by 
painful recollections, accompanied her without a word. 
He was profoundly sorry that he had given her pain. 
Alice knew, as well as if he had spoken his thought, 
what was passing in his mind. 

As one travelling in the dark will see a whole valley 
in one flash of lightning, Alice had seen the error 
under which Mr. Wyville labored, and all its causes, 
in that one moment of illumination. Then, too, she 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 


275 


<ead his heart, filled with deep feeling, and unconscious 
of the gulf before it ; and the knowledge flooded her 
with sorrow. 

At the door of the house, Mrs. Little met them with 
an air of bustle. 

“ Why, Alice ! ” she exclaimed, “ two gentlemen com- 
ing to dinner, and one of them an old friend, and you 
loitering by the river like a school-girl. Mr. Wyville, 
I believe you kept Alice till she has barely time to put 
a ribbon in her hair.” 

Mr. Wyville, with some easy turn of the subject, 
covered Alice’s disquiet, and then took his leave, 
going to Perth, to return later with Sheridan and 
Hamerton. 

“ Dear Mrs. Little,” said Alice, when his horse’s 
hoofs sounded on the road, “ you must not ask me to 
dine with you to-night. Let me go to the children.” 

There was something in her voice and face that 
touched the kind matron, and she at once assented, 
only saying she was sorry for Alice’s sake. 

“ But you will see Mr. Sheridan ? ” she said. “ Mr. 
Little says he was very particular in asking for you.” 

“ I will see him to-morrow,” said Alice ; “ indeed, I 
am not able to see any one to-night.” 

An hour later, when the guests arrived, Alice sat 
in her unlighted room, and heard their voices ; and one 
voice, that she remembered as from 'yesterday, men- 
tioned her name, and then remained silent. 


IV. 

THE MEETING. 


With the first warm flush of morning, Alice was 
away on her favorite lonely walk by the river. The 


276 


MOONDYNE. 


day opened, like almost all days in Western Australia, 
with a glorious richness of light, color, and life. The 
grand shadowy stretches in the bush were neither 
silent nor humid, as in tropical countries. Every inch 
of ground sent up its jet of color, exquisite though 
scentless ; and all the earth hummed with insect life, 
while the trees flashed with the splendid colors of 
countless bright-necked birds. 

Alice breathed in the wondrous beauty of her sur- 
roundings. Her heart, so long unresponsive, had burst 
into full harmony with the generous nature of the 
Australian bush. 

Down by the river, where the spreading mahogany 
trees reached far over the water, she loved to walk in 
the early morning and at the close of the day. Thither 
she went this morning ; and an hour later some one 
followed her steps, directed where to find her by Mrs. 
Little. 

That morning, as she left the house, Mrs. Little ha*d 
told her that Mr. Sheridan was to call early, and had 
asked to see her. 

“ I shall be home very soon,” Alice said, as she went 
out. 

But she did not return soon ; and when Mr. Sheri- 
dan called, much earlier than he was expected, Mrs. 
Little told him where Miss Walmsley usually spent her 
mornings, and he, leaving his horse in the stable, 
walked down through the bush toward the river. 

The shadows and the flowers and the bright-winged 
birds were as beautiful as an hour before, but Will 
Sheridan, though he loved nature, saw none of them. 
He walked rapidly at first, then he slackened his pace, 
and broke off a branch here and there as he passed, 
and threw it away again. When he came to the river, 
and stood and looked this way and that for Alice, all 
the determination with which he had set out had 
disappeared. 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 


277 


But Alice was noi in sight. He walked along by 
the river bank, and in a few minutes he saw her com- 
ing toward him beneath the trees. 

He stood still, and waited for her. She walked rap- 
idly. When within ten yards of where he stood, she 
turned from the river, to cross the bush toward the 
house. She had not seen him, and in a minute she 
would be out of sight. Sheridan took a few paces 
toward her and stopped. 

“ Alice/’ he said aloud. 

She turned and saw him standing, with an eager 
face, his hands reached out toward her. Every pre- 
meditated word was forgotten. She gave one look at 
the face, so little changed, — she felt the deep emotion 
in voice and act and feature, and her heart responded 
impulsively and imperatively. She only spoke one word. 
“ Will ! ” 

He came forward, his eyes on hers, and the eyes of 
both were brimming. Without a word they met. Alice 
put out both her hands, and he took them, and held 
them, and after a while he raised them one after the 
other to his lips, and kissed them. Then they turned 
toward the house and walked on together in silence. 
Their hearts were too full for words. They understood 
without speech. Their sympathy was so deep and un- 
utterable that it verged on to the bounds of pain. 

On the verandah, Alice turned to him with the same 
full look she had given him at first, only it was clear 
as a morning sky, and with it she gave him her hand. 
Sheridan looked into the cloudless depths of her eyes, 
as if searching for the word that only reached his senses 
through the warm pressure of her hand. 

It was a silent meeting and parting, but it was com- 
pletely eloquent and decisive. They had said all that 
each longed for, in the exquisite language of the soul. 
As Sheridan was departing, he turned once more to 
Alice 


278 


MOONDYNE. 


“ I shall come here this evening.” 

She only smiled, and he went away with a satisfied 
heart. 

On that morning, Mr. Wyville had started early for 
Fremantle, his mind revolving two important steps 
which he meant to take that day. Since the arrival of 
the ship he had been disquieted by the presence of 
Draper in the colony. He questioned his own wisdom 
in bringing him there, or in keeping him there when 
he might have let him go. 

But, in his wide experience of men, and of criminals, 
Mr. Wyville had never met one who was wholly bad ; 
he had discovered, under the most unsightly and in- 
harmonious natures, some secret chord that, when once 
struck, brought the heart up to the full tone of human 
kindness. This chord he had sought for in Draper. 
He had hoped that in the day of humiliation his heart 
would return to her he had so cruelly wronged. 

There was only one step more to be taken — to re- 
lease Harriet, and, if she would, let her seek her hus- 
band and appeal once more to his humanity. 

On this day, Mr. Wyville intended to issue a pardon 
to Harriet Draper. The Government had awarded to 
Alice Walmsley, as some form of recompense for her 
unjust suffering, a considerable sum of money; and 
this money Mr. Wyville held, at Alice’s request, for 
the benefit of Harriet. 

Arrived at Fremantle, he proceeded to the prison, 
and signed the official papers necessary for the release. 
The money was made payable to Harriet at the Bank 
of Fremantle. He did not see her himself, but he took 
means of letting her know the residence of her hus- 
band ; and he also provided that Draper should be 
informed of her release. 

He watched her from his office window as she was 
led to the prison gate. And as she took the pardon in 
her hand, and turned toward the outer world in a be- 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 279 

wildered way, the utter misery and loneliness of the 
woman smote Mr. Wyville’s heart. 

“ God help her ! ” he murmured ; “ she has no place 
to go but to him.” 

This done, Mr. Wyville set his mind toward Perth, 
where, on his return that day, he was to enter on 
another act of even deeper personal importance. Some- 
how, his heart was heavy as he walked from the prison, 
thinking of the next few hours. He had been more 
deeply impressed than he thought, perhaps, by the 
w r retched fate of the poor woman he had just released. 

At the stable where his horses were put up, he found 
Officer Lodge, who, with Ngarra-jil, he sent on to Perth 
in a light carriage before him. He followed on horse- 
back. As he rode through the town, he passed the 
bank. In the portico sat a woman on a bench, with 
her head bent low on her hands. He was startled by 
the attitude ; it recalled to his mind the figure of the 
unhappy Harriet, as he had seen her in the lock-up of 
Walton-le-Dale. 

Something induced him to look at the woman a sec- 
ond time. As he did so, she raised her face, and smiled 
at a man who came quickly out of the Bank, pressing 
something like a heavy pocket-book into his • breast. 
The woman was Harriet; and the man was Draper, 
who had just drawn her money from the Bank. 

Mr. Wyville was in no mood to ride swiftly, so he 
let his horse choose its own pace. When about half 
way to Perth, however, he broke into a canter, and 
arrived shortly after the trap containing Ben Lodge 
and his native servant. 

Mr. Wyville had not occupied the official residence 
of the Comptroller-General ; but had kept his quarters 
at the hotel, a very comfortable establishment. As he 
dismounted in the yard, Ben Lodge held his horse, and 
seemed in garrulous humor. 

“Mr. Sheridan were here, sir,” said Ben, “and he 


280 


MOONDYNE. 


asked after you. He said lie were going to Mr. Little’s 
to-night, and he hoped to see you there.” 

Mr. Wyville nodded to Ben, and was going toward 
the house; but Officer Lodge looked at him with a 
knowing look in his simple face, as if enjoying some 
secret pleasure. 

“ He ’s found her at last, sir,” he said. 

Mr. Wyville could only smile at the remark, which 
he did not at all comprehend. 

“ He were always fond of her. I ’ve known him 
since he were a boy.” 

Still Mr. Wyville did not speak ; but he seemed in- 
terested, and he ceased to smile. Old Ben saw that he 
might continue. 

“ I thought at one time that they ’d be married. It ’s 
years ago ; but I see them as plain as if it were yes- 
terday. He were a handsome fellow when he came 
home from sea — just like his father, old Captain 
Sheridan — I knew him well, too, — and just to 
think ! ” 

Here old Ben stopped, and led the horse toward the 
stable, satisfied with his own eloquence. Mr. Wyville 
stood just where he had dismounted. He looked after 
Ben Lodge, then walked toward the hotel; but he 
changed his mind, and returned, and entered the stable, 
where Ben was unsaddling the horse. 

“ Was Mr. Sheridan alone when he started for Mr. 
Little\s ? ” he asked. 

“ Yessir, he were alone.” Then Ben added with a 
repetition of the knowing look : “ Happen, he don’t 
want no company, sir ; he never did when he were a 
boy, when she was ’round.” 

Mr. Wyville looked at Ben Lodge in such a way 
that the old man would have been frightened had he 
raised his head. There was a sternness of brow rarely 
seen on the calm, strong face ; and there was a light 
almost of terror in the eye. 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 


281 


“ He were very fond of Alice, snre-ly,” said the old 
fellow, as he went on with his work ; “ and I do be- 
lieve he ’s just as fond of her to-day.” 

"Do you tell me,” said Mr. Wyville, slowly, “that 
Mr. Sheridan knew Miss Walmsley, very intimately, 
in Walton-le-Dale, years ago ? ” 

“ 0, yessir ; they was very hintimate, no doubt ; and 
they were going to be married, folk said, when that 
precious rascal Draper hinterfered. They say in Wal- 
ton to this day that he turned her head by lies against 
the man she loved.” 

Ben Lodge carried the saddle to another part of the 
yard. Had he looked round he would have seen Mr. 
Wyville leaning against the stall, his face changed by 
mental suffering almost past recognition. In a minute, 
when the old man returned, Mr. Wyville passed him 
in silence, and entered the hotel. 

The door of his room was locked for hours that day, 
and he sat beside his desk, sometimes with his head 
erect, and a blank suffering look in his eyes, and some- 
times with his face buried in his hands. The agony 
through which his soul was passing was almost mortal. 
The powerful nature was ploughed to its depths. He 
saw the truth before him, as hard and palpable as a 
granite rock. He saw his own blind error. His heart, 
breaking from his will, tried to travel again the paths 
of sweet delusion which had brought so great and new 
a joy to his soul. But the strong will resisted, wrestled, 
refused to listen to the heart’s cry of pain — and, in 
the end, conquered. 

But the man had suffered wofully in the struggle. 
The lines on his bronzed face were manifestly deeper, 
and the lips were firmer set, as, toward evening, he 
rose from his seat and looked outward and upward at 
the beautiful deep sky. His lips moved as he looked, 
repeating the bitter words that were becoming sweet 
to his heart — “Thy will be done ! ” 


282 


MOONDYNE. 


Two hours later, when the glory of the sunset had 
departed, and the white moon was reflected in the 
mirror-like Swan, Will Sheridan and Alice stood be- 
side the river. With one hand he held one of hers, and 
the other arm was around her. He was looking down 
into her eyes, that were as deep and calm as the 
river. 

“ It has been so always, dear,” he said tenderly ; 

“ I have never lost my love for one day.” 

She only pressed closer to him, still looking up, but - 
the tears filled her eyes. 

“ My sorrow, then, was not equal to yours,” she 
said. 

“ Darling, speak no more of sorrow,” he answered : 

“ it shall be the background of our happiness, making 
every line the clearer. I only wish to know that you 
love me as I love you.” 

Their lips met in a kiss of inexpressible sweetness 
and unity — in a joy so perfect that the past trembled 
out of sight and disappeared for ever. 

While yet they stood beside the river, they heard a 
footstep near them. Alice started with alarm, and 
drew closer to her protector. Next moment, Mr. Wy- 
ville stood beside them, his face strangely lighted up 
by the moonlight. He was silent a moment. Then 
Sheridan, in his happiness, stretched out his hand as 
to a close friend, and the other took it. A moment 
after, he took Alice’s hand, and stood holding both. 

“ God send happiness to you ! ” he said, his voice 
very low and deeply earnest. “ Your past sorrow will 
bring a golden harvest. Believe me, I am very happy 
in your happiness.” 

They did not answer in words ; but the truth of his 
friendship was clearer to their hearts than the bright 
moon to their eyes. He joined the hands he held, and 
without speaking further, left them together by the 
river. 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 


283 


y. 

MR. WYVILLE FACES A STORM. 

In the peaceful water of Fremantle harbor, Mr. 
Wyville’s yacht had lain at anchor for several months. 
On her return from Adelaide with Mr. Sheridan, she 
had taken on board a cargo, contained in large cases 
nnd swathings, which had arrived from Europe some 
time before. She also took on board many persons of 
both sexes, mostly mechanics and laborers, with their 
families ; and among the crowd, but with airs of trust 
and supervision, as caretakers or stewards, were Mr. 
Haggett and Officer Lodge. Their friend Ngarra-jil had 
come on board to bid them good-by, and as he strode 
about the deck, naked, except his fur boka, hanging 
from the shoulder, and carrying two long spears in 
his hand, he seemed a strange acquaintance for two 
persons so prosaic as Mr. Haggett and Ben Lodge. 

This thought, indeed, occurred to both of them with 
renewed strength that day ; and it was emphasized by 
the remark of 'one of* the mechanics, — 

“ That black fellow seems to know you putty well ; ” 
addressed to Ben Lodge. 

“ Yes,” said Ben, with hesitation, and a glance of 
doubt at Ngarra-jil ; “ we knew him in England. He 
were dressed fine there.” 

“ Well,” said the good-natured mechanic, “ he ’s the 
same man still as he war theer. ’Tisn ’t clothes as we 
ought to vally in our friends.” 

This remark brightened Officer Lodge’s face, and 
his hesitating manner toward his wild friend vanished. 
When the anchor was weighed, and the last visitor 
had jumped on the barges to go ashore, there were no 
warmer farewells spoken than those of Mr. Haggett 
and Ben Lodge to Ngarra-jil. 


284 


MOONDYNE. 


That evening, at Mr. Little's pleasant dinner-table, 
Mrs. Little spoke to Mr. Wy ville about the destination 
of the passengers. 

“ They are going to settle in the Yasse district,” he 
said ; “ they have purchased homesteads there.” 

“ You have built extensively on your own land 
there, I believe,” said Mr. Little. 

A shadow, .scarcely perceptible, flitted over Mr. 
Wyville’s face ; but his voice had its accustomed tone 
as he answered. 

“ Yes ; I have worked out an old fancy as to the 
site and plan of a dwelling-house. But the building 
was not for myself. Mr. Sheridan has bought the 
place from me.” 

“ Bless me ! ” said Mrs. Little, in a disappointed 
tone ; “ after sending scores of workmen and gardeners 
from Europe, and spending four years and heaps of 
money to make a lovely place, to go and sell it all, 
just when it was finished ! I ’m sure Mr. Sheridan 
might go and make some other place beautiful. It 
really is too provoking.” 

“ Mrs. Little,” said Hamerton, adroitly taking the 
good lady’s attention from a subject which she was in 
danger of pursuing, “ will you not direct me to some 
rare spot that is capable of beauty and hungry for im- 
provement ? I, too, am hunting for a home.” 

The lure was quite successful. Mrs. Little ran over 
in her mind all the pretty places she knew in the 
Colony, and instructed Mr. Hamerton with much par- 
ticularity and patience. 

The further conversation of the evening touched no 
matter of importance to the persons present. 

After some weeks the steamer returned to Fre- 
mantle, and lay at anchor for several months, except 
some pleasure-trips round the adjacent coast, arranged 
by Mrs. Little, and taking in many of the ladies of the 
Colony. 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 


285 


Mr. Wyville was engaged every day in directing the 
operation of the new and humane law he had brought 
to the Colony. At first, it seemed as if it must end in 
failure. Its worst enemies were those it proposed to 
serve. The convicts, as soon as they found the old 
rigor relaxed, and a word take the place of a blow ; 
when they saw offences that used to earn five years in 
chains, punished by five minutes of reproach from a 
superintendent, or at worst, by a red stripe on the 
sleeve, — when first they saw this, they took advan- 
tage of it, and shamefully abused their new privileges. 

Among the officials of the convict service were 
many who watched this result with satisfied eyes, — 
croakers, who always predict defeat, and a few envious 
and disappointed ones, who had lost some selfish 
chance by the change. 

At last, it came to such a condition, — the reports 
from .the outlying districts were so alarming, and the 
croakers and mischief-makers became so bold in their 
criticism, — that even the warmest friends of the new 
system held tKeir breath in fear of something disastrous. 

But through the gloom, there was one steadfast and 
reliant heart and hand. He who had planned the 
system had faith in it. He knew what its foundations 
were. When even the brave quailed, he still Smiled ; 
and though his face grew thin with anxious applica- 
tion, there was never a quiver of weakness or hesita- 
tion in it. 

His near friends watched him with tender, some- 
times with terrified interest. But, as the storm thick- 
ened, they spoke to him less and less of the danger, 
until at last they ceased to speak at all. They only 
looked on him with respect and love, and did his few 
behests without a word. 

Mr. Wyville knew that he was trying no experi- 
ment, though he was doing what had never been done 
before. It was not experimental, because it was de- 


28G 


MOONDYNE. 


monstrable. He had not based his system on theory 
or whim, but on the radical principles of humanity ; 
and he was sure of the result. All he wanted was 
time, to let the seething settle. Those who doubted, 
were doubting something as inexorably true as a 
mathematical axiom. His ship was in the midst of a 
cyclone ; but the hand on the tiller was as true as the 
very compass itself, for it obeyed as rigidly a natural 
law. 

One flash of passion only did the tempest strike 
from him. On the great parade-ground of the prison 
at Fremantle, one day, a thousand convicts stood in 
line, charged with grossly breaking the new law. On 
their flank was unlimbered a battery of artillery ; and 
in their rear was a line of soldiers with fixed bayonets 
and loaded rifles. Scattered in front were the convict 
officers, and in the centre of the line, within hearing 
of the convicts, the malcontents had gathered, and 
were openly denouncing the law as a failure, and de- 
claring that the Colony was in danger. Among them, 
loud in his dissent, stood an officer with' a broad gold 
band on his cap, — the deputy superintendent of the 
prison. 

Mr. Wyville had ridden hard from Perth, whence 
he had been summoned by a courier with a highly- 
colored report. His face was deeply-lined and care- 
worn, for he had scarcely slept an hour a day for 
weeks. But he knew that the turning-point had 
come. Six months of the new system had passed. 
During that time there had only been a moral restraint 
on the convicts, — henceforth, there would be a per- 
sonal and selfish one. 

From this day the convicts would begin to receive 
reward for good conduct, as well as reproach for bad. 

A hundred yards behind Mr. Wyville, rode silently 
the two men who loved him best, — Hamerton and 
Sheridan. They had seen him start, had questioned the 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 


287 


courier, and discovered the cause. Thrusting their 
revolvers into their holsters, they had followed him in 
silence. 

Mr. Wyville checked his steaming horse as he drew 
near the prison. He rode up to the gate, and entered 
the yard calmly, but with such a bearing, even im- 
parted to the horse, as made every man feel that he 
was full of power. 

As he approached, there was deep silence for half a 
minute. Then, his ear caught the sound of a murmur 
in the central group of officers. He reined his horse 
stiffly, and regarded them with flaming eyes. 

There was no sound for a moment ; then there was 
a whisper ; and then the deputy with the gold band 
walked to the front, and, without salute or preface, 
spoke : — 

“ The warders cannot control the men by your new 
rules. The Colony is in a state of mutiny.” 

There ran a sound, like a terrible growl, along the 
line of a thousand convicts. 

Mr. Wyville dismounted. His horse stood unat- 
tended. Sheridan and Hamerton closed up, their 
hands quietly on their holster-pipes. 

It was a moment of awful responsibility ; the lives 
of thousands were in the balance. One weak or false 
step, and the yell of blind revolt would split the air, 
to be followed by the crash of artillery, and the 
shrieks of a wild tumult. 

Two revolts stood in Mr. Wy ville’s presence — the 
warders’ and the convicts’. Toward which side lay the 
dangerous step ? 

There was no indecision — not a moment of delay 
in his action. With a few rapid strides he was close 
to the mutinous deputy, had plucked the conspicuous 
cap from his head, rent off its broad gold band, flung it 
on the earth, and put his foot on it. The next instant 
his hand had torn the insignia of rank from his collar, 


288 


MOONDYNE. 


■unbuckled bis belt, and thrown his sword on the 
ground. Then, with a voice that rang like a trumpet 
through the prison yard, he called to the military 
officer for a file of men, with irons. 

The leader of the warders had never moved — but 
he had grown pale. He had expected a parley, at 
least, perhaps, a surrender of the Comptroller’s plan. 
But he was dealing with one who was more than a 
man, who was at that moment an embodied principle. 

In a few moments the degraded and dumfounded 
deputy was in irons, with a soldier at each shoulder. 

“Take him to the cells!’’ said Mr. Wyville. His 
stern order reached every ear in the yard. Then he 
addressed the military commander. 

“ Limber up those guns, and march your riflemen to 
their quarters ! ” 

In two minutes there was not a soldier nor a gun in 
sight. 

“ The warders will bring their prisoners into square, 
to listen to the first half-yearly report of the Penal 
Law.” 

Rapidly and silently, with faces of uncertainty, the 
movement was performed, and the thousand convicts 
stood in solid mass before the austere Comptroller- 
General, who had mounted his horse, and looked down 
on them, holding in his hand the report. There was a 
profound silence. 

Mr. Wyville read from the paper, in a rapid but 
clear voice the names of twelve men, and ordered them 
to step to the front, if present. Seven men walked 
from the convict square, and stood before him ; the 
other five were on the road-parties throughout the 
Colony. Mr. Wyville addressed the seven. 

“ Men, by your good conduct as recorded under the old 
law, and your attention to the rules of the present penal 
code, you have become entitled to a remission of the 
unexpired term of your sentences. To-day’s miscon- 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 


289 


duct shall not stop your reward. Yon are free. Guard, 
allow those men to pass through the gate ! ” 

The seven men, wide-eyed, unable to realize the 
news, almost tottered toward the barrier. The eyes 
of their fellows in the square followed them in a daze 
till they disappeared through the outer gate. 

There was a sound from the square, like a deep 
breath, followed by a slight shuffling of feet. Then 
again there was absolute stillness, every eye intently 
fixed on the face of the Comptroller-General. 

Again he read a list of names, and a number of 
men came quickly to the front and stood in line. The 
new law had awarded to these a certain considerable 
remission, which sounded to their ears like the very 
promise of freedom. 

Still the lists were read, and still the remissions 
were conferred. When the report was ended, seven 
men had been released, and sixty-seven out of the 
thousand present, all of whom had that morning 
threatened mutiny, had received rewards striking away 
years of their punishment. 

“ Men ! we have heard the last sound of mutiny in 
the Colony.” 

Mr. Wyville’s voice thrilled the convicts like deep- 
sounded music : they looked at him with awe-struck 
faces. Every heart was filled with the conviction that 
he was their friend ; that it was well to listen to him 
and obey him. 

“ From this day, every man is earning his freedom, 
and an interest in this Colony. Your rights are writ- 
ten down, and you shall know them. You must re- 
gard the rights of others as yours shall be regarded. 
This law trusts to your manhood, and offers you a re- 
ward for your labor ; let every man be heedful that it is 
not disgraced nor weakened by unmanly conduct. See 
to it, each for himself, and each helping his fellow, that 
19 


290 


MOONDYNE. 


you return as speedily as you may to the freedom and 
independence which this Colony offers you.” 

Turning to the warders, he gave a brief order to 
march the men to their work ; and, turning his horse, 
rode slowly from the prison. 

From that hour, as sometimes a tempest dies after 
one tremendous blast, the uproar against the new law 
was silent. As swiftly as couriers could carry the 
news, the scene in the prison yard was described to 
every road-party in the Colony. 

Among* the warders, opposition disappeared the mo- 
ment the gold band of the deputy’s cap was seen 
under the Comptroller’s foot. Among the convicts, 
disorder hid its wild head as soon as they realized that 
the blind system of work without reward had been 
replaced by one that made every day count for a hope 
not only of liberty, but independence. 

In a word, from that day the Colony ceased to be 
stagnant, and began to progress. 


VI. 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 

There was a large and pleasant party on the deck 
of Mr. Wyville’s steamer as she slowly swung from 
her moorings and headed seaward through the islands 
of Fremantle Harbor. It was evidently more than a 
coast excursion, for the vessel had been weeks in prep- 
aration, and the passengers had made arrangements for 
a long absence. 

Beneath the poop awning, waving their handker- 
chiefs to friends on shore, stood Mrs. Little and 
several other ladies. Standing with them, but wav- 
ing no adieu, was Alice Walmsley ; and quietly sitting 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 


291 


near her, enjoying the excitement and pleasure of the 
others, was Sister Cecilia. 

There were many gentlemen on board, too, including 
the stiff old governor of the Colony, and several of his 
staff. Mr. Wyville stood with the governor, pointing 
out, as they passed, something of interest on the native 
prison-isle of Eottenest ; Mr. Hamerton lounged on the 
forecastle, smoking, and with him the artillery officer of 
Fremantle ; while Mr. Sheridan leant over the rail, 
watching the sea, but often raising his head and look- 
ing sternwards, seeking the eyes that invariably turned, 
as if by instinct, to meet his glance. 

It was a party of pleasure and inspection, going to 
the Yasse, to visit the new settlement purchased from 
Mr. Wyville by Mr. Sheridan. They proposed to steam 
slowly along the coast, and reach their destination in 
two days. 

The excursion was a relief to Mr. Wyville, after the 
severe strain he had borne for months. From the day 
of the threatened mutiny, which he had quelled by 
the report, the new law had become an assured success, 
and the congratulations and thanks of the whole Col- 
ony had poured in on the Comptroller-General. 

It appeared to those who knew him best, that, dur- 
ing the period of trial, he had withdrawn more and 
more from social life, and had increased his silence 
and reserve. This change was ascribed to the anxiety 
he felt for the reform of the penal law. In his con- 
versation, too, even Hamerton admitted that he had 
become almost irritable on personal or local topics, and 
was only willing to converse on abstract or speculative 
ideas. 

“ ‘ The individual withers, and the world is more 
and more/ ” quoted Hamerton one day, as the subject 
of Mr. Wyville’s reserve was quietly discussed on the 
poop. “ I don’t know what he will do for a cause, now 
that his penal law has succeeded.” 


292 


MOONDYNE. 


“He will turn his attention to politics, I think,” 
said one of the gentlemen of the staff ; “ every patri- 
otic man has a field there.” 

There was a pause, as if all were considering the 
proposition. At length Hamerton spoke. 

“ Can you call Mr. Wy ville a patriot ? ” 

“ Every Englishman is a patriot,” answered the first 
speaker ; “ of course he is one.” 

Again there was a lapse ; and again Hamerton was 
the first to speak. 

“ I don’t like the word — applied to him. I don’t 
think it fits, somehow.” 

“ Surely, it is a noble word, only to be given to a 
noble character,” said one of the ladies. 

“Well,” drawled Hamerton, assenting, but still 
dissatisfied. 

“ Mr. Wy ville has the two highest characteristics of 
an Englishman,” said the old governor, sententiously. 

“ Which are ? ” queried Hamerton. 

“ Patriotism, and love of Law.” 

There was an expression of approval from almost 
every one but Hamerton, who still grumbled. The 
governor was highly pleased with himself for his 
prompt reply. 

“ Are these not the noblest principles for an English- 
man, or any man ? ” he asked exultingly. 

“Let us leave it to Mr. Wy ville himself,” said 
Hamerton ; “ here he comes.” 

“We have been discussing public virtues,” said the 
governor to Mr. Wy ville, who now joined the group ; 
“ and we appeal to you for a decision. Are not Patriot- 
ism and love of Law two great English virtues ? ” 

“English virtues — yes, I think so;” and Mr. Wy- 
ville smiled as he gave the answer. 

“But are they virtues in the abstract?” asked 
Hamerton. 

“ No ; I think not — I am sure they are not.” 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 


293 


There was a movement of surprise in the company. 
The answer, given in a grave voice, was utterly unex- 
pected. The old governor coughed once or twice, as if 
preparing to make a reply ; but he did not. 

“ Patriotism not a virtue ! ” at length exclaimed one 
of the ladies. “ Pray, Mr. Wy ville, what is it, then ? ” 

Mr. Wyville paused a moment, then told a story. 

“There were ten families living on a beautiful 
island, and owning the whole of it. They might have 
lived together in fraternal peace and love ; but each 
family preferred to keep to themselves, neither feeling 
pride nor pleasure in the good of their neighbors, nor 
caring about the general welfare of the whole number. 
They watched their own interest with greedy care; 
and when they were strong enough they robbed their 
fellows, and boasted of the deed. Every person of 
each family was proud of its doings, though many of 
these were disgraceful. The spirit which filled these 
people was, I think, patriotism — on a small scale.” 

“ Good ! ” said Hamerton, looking at the governor ; 
“ I thought that word didn’t fit, somehow.” 

“ Well, if patriotism is to be condemned, shall we 
not still reverence Law ? ” asked some one. " Have 
you another allegory, Mr. Wyville ?” 

Again he thought a moment, before his reply came. 

“ There was a lake, from which two streams flowed 
to the sea. One river wound itself around the feet of 
the hills, taking a long course, but watering the fields 
as it ran, and smiling back at the sun. Its flood was 
filled with darting fish, and its banks fringed with rich 
grass and bright flowers. The other stream ran into a 
great earthen pipe, and rolled along in the dark. It 
reached the sea first, but it had no fish in its water, 
except blind ones, and no flowers on its banks. This 
stream had run so long in the tunnel without its own 
will that it preferred this way to the winding course 
of its natural bed ; and at last it boasted of its rever- 


294 


MOONDYNE. 


ence for the earthen pipe that held it together and 
guided its blind way.” 

“ The earthen pipe is Law, I suppose,” said Mr. 
Little, “ that men come in time to love.” 

Mr. Wyville, who had smiled at the ladies all 
through his allegory, did not answer. 

“ But do you apply the allegory to all law ? ” asked 
a gentleman of the staff. 

“ To all law not founded on God’s abstract justice, 
which provides for man’s right to the planet. Sooner 
or later, human laws, from the least act to the greatest, 
shall be brought into harmony with this.” 

“ Will you give us substitutes for those poor vir- 
tues that you have pushed out ? What shall we have 
instead ? ” 

“ Mankind and Liberty — instead of Patriotism and 
Law. Surely, the exchange is generously in our fa- 
vor.” 

Then followed a general discussion, in which every 
one had a hasty word. Mr. Wyville said no more ; but 
drew off the governor and Hamerton to his cabin to 
settle some geographical inaccuracy in a chart of the 
coast. 

So the hours passed on the steamer, as she slowly 
rounded headlands and cut across bays. The air was 
laden with the breath of the interminable forest. On 
shore, when the great fires swept over miles of sandal- 
wood and jamwood bush, the heavy perfume from the 
burning timber lingered on the calm air, and extended 
far over land and sea. 

On the afternoon of the second day, they saw before 
them the mountains of the Yasse, running sheer down 
to the sea, in two parallel ridges about six miles apart. 

The land between these high ridges was cut off, some 
four or five miles back, by a line of mountain which 
joined the ridges, thus forming the valley which Mr. 
Sheridan had bought from Mr. Wyville. 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 


295 


As the steamer drew close to the land, the valley 
assumed the perfect shape of a horse-shoe. From the 
sea, at a distance, it seemed a retreat of delicious cool- 
ness and verdure. The mountains were wooded high 
up their sides, and the tops were so steep they 
seemed to overhang the valley. Two broad and bright 
shallow streams, which tumbled from the hills at the 
head of the valley, wound through the rich plain and 
calmly merged in the ocean. 

Exclamations of wonder and delight were on every 
lip as the surpassing beauties of the scene came one 
after another into view. 

The end of the ridge on the southern side ran far 
into the sea ; and here, under Mr. Wyville’s directions 
years before, a strong mahogany pier had been erected, 
which made a safe landing-place for even great ships. 
A railed platform ran round the foot of the hills, and 
brought the passengers to a road shaded by majestic 
trees that swept toward the farther end of the valley. 

Awaiting their arrival, were easy open carriages, ev- 
idently of European build, in which the astonished 
party seated themselves. The drivers were some 
black, some white, but they were all at home in their 
places. 

The scene was like a field from fairy-land. No eye 
accustomed only to Northern vegetation and climate 
can conceive unaided the glory of a well-watered Aus- 
tralian vale. The carriages rolled under trees of splen- 
did fern from fifteen to twenty feet in height ; the earth 
was variegated with rich color in flower and herbage ; 
spreading palms of every variety filled the eye with 
beauty of form ; the green and crimson and yellow par- 
rots and paroquets rose in flocks as the carriages passed ; 
and high over all the beauteous life of the underwood 
rose the grand mahogany and tuad and gum trees of 
the forest. 

They passed cottages bowered in flowers, and ringed 


296 


MOONDYNE. 


by tall hedgerows composed wholly of gorgeous gera- 
niums. The strangers who looked on these changing 
revelations of loveliness sat silent, and almost tearful. 
Even those long accustomed to Australian scenery were 
amazed at the beauty of the valley. 

Mr. Wyville and Mr. Sheridan had ridden rapidly 
on before the others, and stood uncovered and host-like 
on the verandah of the house where the drive ended. 

Alice Walmsley sat in the foremost carriage, and 
was the first to alight, with Sheridan’s hand holding 
hers. Their eyes met as she stepped to his side. His 
lips formed one short word, of which only her eye and 
ear were conscious, — 

“ Home ! ” 

Exclamations of wonder came from all the party at 
the peerless beauty of their surroundings. The house 
was wholly built of bright re^d mahogany beams, per- 
fectly fitted, with rich wood-carving of sandalwood and 
jam wood on angle, cornice, and capital. It was very 
low, only one story high for the most part, though 
there were a number of sleeping-rooms raised to a 
second story. From the verandah looking seaward, 
every part of the wooded valley was visible, and the 
winding silver of the rivers glanced deliciously through 
the trees. Beyond, lay the level blue water of the 
Indian Ocean, stretching away to the cream-colored 
horizon. 

The house within doors was a wonder of richness, 
taste, and comfort. Everything was of wood, highly 
finished with polish and carving, and the colors were 
combined of various woods. Soft rugs from India and 
Persia lay on halls and rooms. Books, pictures, stat- 
uary, rare bric-a-brac, everything that vast wealth and 
cultivated taste could command or desire, was to be 
found in this splendid residence. 

Almost in silence, the strangers passed through the 
countless rooms, each differing from the others, and 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 


297 


each complete. Mr. Wyville led the larger party of 
guests through the place. He had not before seen it 
himself ; but he was wholly familiar with the plans, 
which, indeed, were largely his own. 

“ But it will have an owner now,” he said, “ who 
will better enjoy its restfulness, and take closer inter- 
est in its people.” 

“ But you should rest, too, Mr. Wyville,” said Mrs. 
Little ; “ the Colony is now settled with your excellent 
law.” 

“ There is much to be done yet,” he said, shaking 
his head, with the old grave smile. “ I have not even 
time to wait one day.” 

There was a general look of astonishment. 

“ Why, Mr. Wyville, surely you will nofc leave this 
lovely place — ” 

“ I must leave to-night,” he said ; “ I am very sorry, 
but it is imperative.” 

Then, not waiting for further comment, he took them 
out to the stables and village-like out-houses. There 
was no regular garden : the valley itself was garden 
and farm and forest in one. 

Alice Walmsley had lingered behind the others, in a 
quiet and dim little room, looking away out to sea. 
Contentment filled her soul like low music. She 
wished to be alone. She had sat only a few minutes 
when she heard a step beside her. She did not look 
up ; she knew whose hand was round her cheek, and 
standing over her. They did not say a word ; but re- 
mained still for a long, long time. Then he bent over 
her, turning her face to his. She raised her arms, and 
he took her to his breast and lips in the fulness of hap- 
piness and love. 

When they left the dim little room, which was ever 
after to be the dearest to them in their rich home, they 
saw the sombre robes of Sister Cecilia as she sat alone 
on the verandah. 


298 


MOONDYNE. 


“ Where shall the school he, Sister ? ” asked Sheri 
dan ; “ have you selected your site ? ” 

“ She shall build it on the choicest spot that can be 
found,” said Alice, seating herself beside Sister Cecilia. 

“ Dictation already ! ” laughed Sheridan, at which 
Alice blushed, and sent him away. 

Toward evening, there stood on the verandah, having 
quietly withdrawn from the guests, Mr. Wyville, Sher- 
idan, and Hamerton. Mr. Wyville meant quietly to 
leave, without disturbing the party. 

“ I am sorry beyond expression,” said Sheridan, hold- 
ing his hand ; " your presence was our chief pleasure. 
Can you not even stay with us to-night ? ” 

“ It is impossible ! ” answered Mr. Wyville, with a 
look of affectionate response ; “ the work yet before me 
will not bear delay. Good-bye. God bless you — and 
yours ! ” 

He walked rapidly away, his horse having been led 
by Ben Lodge before him to the entrance. 

“ Good-bye, Sheridan ! ” said Hamerton, suddenly 
seizing his friend’s hand, “ I’m going, too.” 

“ What ? You—” 

“ Stop ! Don’t try to prevent me. I can’t let him 
go alone. Go in to your people, and say nothing till 
to-morrow. Good-bye, my dear fellow ! ” 

That night the steamer returned to Fremantle, hav- 
ing on board Mr. Wyville and Hamerton. 


VII. 

THE CONVICT’S PASS. 

On Mr. Wyville’s return from the Vasse, he set him- 
self with tireless will to the complete organization of 
the Penal Law. Hot content with writing copious 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 


299 


rules for the guidance of warders, he proposed to visit 
all the districts in the Colony, and personally instruct 
the chief officers of depots, from whom the system 
would pass directly to their subordinates. 

For many days Mr. Hamerton saw little of him, and 
the time was heavy on his hands. He intended to 
purchase land in the Colony, and bring some of his old 
farmers from England to settle on it. 

One day, he went to the prison at Fremantle, and 
waited for Mr. Wyville in his office. As he sat there, 
by a window that looked over a wide stretch of sandy 
scrub, he noticed that though the sky was clear and the 
heat intense, a heavy cloud like dense vapor hung over 
all the lowland. He remembered that for a few days 
past he had observed the smoky sultriness of the at- 
mosphere, but had concluded that it was the natural 
oppression of the season. 

“ That vapor looks like smoke,” he said to the con- 
vict clerk in the office ; “ what is it ? ” 

“It is smoke, sir,” said the man. “ This is the year 
for the bush-fires.” 

Just then Mr. Wyville entered, and their meeting 
was cordial. Mr. Wyville, who looked tired, said he 
had only an hour’s writing to do, after which he would 
ride to Perth. He asked Hamerton to wait, and handed 
him some late English papers to pass the time. 

Hamerton soon tired of his reading, and having laid 
aside the paper, his eyes rested on Mr. Wyville, who 
was intently occupied, bending over his desk. Hamer- 
ton almost started with surprise at the change he ob- 
served in his appearance — a change that was not easily 
apparent when the face was animated in conversation. 
When they sailed from England, Mr. Wyville’s hair 
was as black as a raven ; but now, even across the 
room, Hamerton could see that it was streaked with 
white. The features, too, had grown thin, like those of 
a person who had suffered in sickness. 


300 


MOONDYNE. 


But, when the hour had passed, and he raised his 
head and looked smilingly at Hamerton, it was the 
same striking face, and the same grand presence as of 
old. Still, Hamerton could not forget the change he 
had observed. 

“ Come,” he said, unable to conceal an unusual affec- 
tionate earnestness, “let us ride to Perth, and rest 
there — you need rest.” 

“ Why, I never felt better,” answered Mr. Wyville, 
lightly ; “ and rest is rust to me. I never rest unless I 
am ill.” 

“ You will soon be ill if this continue.” 

“ Do you think so ? ” and as he asked the question, 
Hamerton saw a strange light in his eye. 

“ Yes, I think you have overtaxed yourself lately. 
You are in danger of breaking down — so you ought 
to rest.” 

Hamerton was puzzled to see him shake his head 
sadly. 

“No, no, I am too strong to break down. Death 
passes some people, you know ; and I am one of the — 
fortunate.” 

Hamerton did not like the tone nor the mood. He 
had never seen him so before. He determined to 
hurry their departure. He walked, out of the office 
and waited in the prison yard. Mr. Wyville joined 
him in a few moments. 

“ I thought this smoke was only a sultry air,” 
Hamerton said ; “ where does it come from ? ” 

“ I think it comes from Bunbury district ; a native 
runner from there says the bush is burning for a 
hundred miles in that direction.” 

“ Are lives lost in these fires ? A hundred miles of 
flame is hard to picture in the mind.” 

“ Yes, some unlucky travellers and wood-cutters are 
surrounded at times ; and the destruction of lower life, 
birds, animals, and reptiles, is beyond computation.” 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 


301 


" Does not the fire leave a desert behind ? ” 

“For a season only; but it also leaves the earth 
clear for a new growth. The roots are not destroyed ; 
and when the rain comes they burst forth with in- 
creased beauty for the fertilizing passage of the flame.” 

By this time they were riding slowly toward Perth. 
The road was shaded with tall mahoganies, and the 
coolness was refreshing. Hamerton seized the oppor- 
tunity of bringing up a subject that lay upon his 
mind. 

“ You gave me, sir,” he said, “ some documents in 
London which you wished me to keep until our arrival 
here. Shall I not return them to-morrow ? ” 

Mr. Wyville rode on without answering. He had 
heard ; but the question had come unexpectedly. 
Hamerton remained silent until he spoke. 

“ Do not return them yet,” he said at length ; “ when 
we get back from our ride to the Yasse, then give them 
to me.” 

“ When shall we start ? ” 

“In ten days. By that time my work will be fairly 
done; and the rest you spoke of may not come 
amiss.” 

“ Shall we ride to Sheridan’s settlement ? ” 

“0 no ; we go inland, to the head of the mountain 
range. Those papers, by the way, in case anything 
should happen to me — the sickness you fear, for in- 
stance — belong to one whom we may see before our 
return. In such a case, on breaking the outer enve- 
lope, you would find his name. But I may say now, 
else you might be surprised hereafter, that he is a 
native bushman.” 

“ A native ! Would he understand ? ” 

“ Yes ; he would understand perfectly. He is my 
heir — heirs generally understand.” 

He was smiling as he spoke, evidently enjoying 
Hamerton’s astonishment. 


302 


MOONDYNE. 


“ Seriously, the package you hold contains my will. 
It is registered in London, and it bequeaths a certain 
section of land in the Yasse Mountains to the native 
chief Te-mana-roa, and his heirs for ever, as the 
lawyers say. We may see the chief on our ride.” 

“ Then why not give him the package ? ” 

“ Because he is a bushman, and might he wronged. 
With two influential persons, like you and Sheridan, to 
support his title, there would be no question raised. 
You see I compel you to be my executor.” 

“ Is he not the grandfather of Koro, of whom she 
often spoke to me.” 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Wyville, smiling, “ and also of 
Tepairu. This property will descend to them.” 

“ Are they with the chief now ? ” 

“ No ; by this time they have reached Mr. Sheridan’s 
happy valley, where it is probable they will remain. 
You see, it is possible to step from the bush into civ- 
ilization ; but it is not quite so pleasant to step back 
into the bush — especially for girls. Ngarra-jil, you 
observed, had no second thought on the subject ; he 
was a spearman again the moment he landed.” 

The ride to Perth was pleasantly passed in conver- 
sation ; and, on their arrival, they ordered dinner to 
be served on the cool verandah. 

While waiting there, a rough-looking man approached 
and touched his hat to Mr. Wyville. 

“ Be you the Comptroller-General ? ” he asked. 

“Yes.” 

“ Well, sir, here, you see my ticket, and here ’s my 
full discharge. I want to leave the colony; and I 
want a pass to King George’s Sound, where I can find 
a ship going to Melbourne.” 

Mr. Wyville examined the papers ; they were all 
right. The man had a right to the pass. He rose to 
enter the hotel to write it, holding the documents in 
his hand. 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 


303 


“ You ’re not going to keep them papers, sir, be 
you ? ” asked the man, in evident alarm. 

“ No,” said Mr. Wyville, looking closely at him » 
“ but if I give you a pass you do not need them.” 

“Well, I ’d rather keep them, sir; I ’d rather keep 
them, even if I don’t get the pass.” 

“Well, you shall have them,” said Mr. Wyville, 
rather surprised at the fellow’s manner. He entered 
the hotel and wrote the pass. 

But, as the hand wrote, the mind turned over the 
man’s words, dwelling on his last expression, that he 
would rather have his ticket-of-leave than take a pass 
from the colony without it ; yet, in any other country, 
it was a proof of shame, not a safeguard. The man 
did not look stupid, though his words were so. As 
Mr. Wyville finished writing, he raised his head and 
saw Ngarra-jil watching him as usual He raised his 
finger slightly — Ngarra-jil was beside him. 

A few words in the native tongue, spoken in a low 
tone, sent Ngarra-jil back to his bench, where he sat 
like an ebony figure till he saw Mr. Wyville return to 
the verandah. He then rose and went out by another 
door. 

Mr. Wyville called the ex-convict toward him till 
he stood in the strong lamplight. He spoke a few 
words to him, and gave him his papers and the pass. 
The man clumsily thanked him and went off 

“That’s an ugly customer,” said Hamerton. “I 
suppose you know it from his papers. He was 
strangely restless while you were writing his pass.” 

Mr. Wyville did not answer, but he took hold of 
Hamerton’s arm, and pointed to a corner of the street 
where at' the moment the man was passing under a 
lamp, walking hurriedly. Following him closely and 
silently strode a tall native with a spear. 

“ Ngarra-jil ? ” said Hamerton. 

Mr. Wyville smiled and nodded. 


304 


MOONDYNE. 


“ I thought it just as well to know where the man 
passed the night,” he said. 

A few minutes later, Ngarra-jil came to the verandah, 
and spoke in his own language to Mr. Wyville, who 
was much disturbed by the message. He wrote a 
letter, and sent it instantly to the post-office. 

“ The callous wretch ! ” he said, unusually moved. 
He had just learned that the man had gone straight to 
Draper, by whom he had been hired to get the pass. 
Draper’s purpose was plain. He intended to leave the 
Colony, and desert again his most unfortunate wife, 
with whose money he could return comfortably to 
England. 

“ What will you do with the miscreant ? ” asked 
Hamerton. 

“ Nothing, but take the pass from him.” 

“ But he is a free man. Can you interfere with his 
movements ? ” 

“ No man is allowed to desert his wife, stealing her 
property. He can have a pass by asking ; but he dare 
not come here for it. And yet, I fear to keep him ; he 
may do worse yet. If no change for the better ap- 
pear, I shall hasten his departure, and alone, on our 
return from the Vasse.” 


VIII. 

THE BUSH-FIRE. 

It was the afternoon of a day of oppressive heat 
on which Mr. Wyville and Hamerton started from 
Perth to ride to the mountains of the Vasse. They 
were lightly equipped, carrying with them the few 
necessaries for the primitive life of the bush. 

Eor weeks before, the air had been filled with an irri- 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 


305 


tating smoke, that clung to the earth all day, and was 
blown far inland by the sea-breeze at night. 

As the horsemen were leaving Perth, they met a 
travel-stained police trooper, carrying the mail from 
the southern districts. He recognized the Comptroller- 
General, and saluted respectfully as he passed. 

“ Where is the fire, trooper ? ” asked Mr. Wyville. 

“ In the Bunbury district, sir, and moving toward 
the Yasse Boad. It has burnt on the plains inside the 
sea-hills for three weeks, and in a day or two will 
reach the heavy bush on the uplands.” 

They rode at a steady and rapid pace, conversing 
little, like men bent on a long and tedious journey. 
The evening closed on them when they were crossing 
the Darling Bange. From the desolate mountain-road, 
as they descended, they saw the sun standing, large 
and red, on the horizon. Before them, at the foot of 
the range, stretched a waste of white sand, far as the 
eye could reach, over which their road lay. 

The setting of the sun on such a scene has an awful- 
ness hard to be. described. The whiteness of the sand 
seems to increase until it becomes ghastly, while every 
low ridge casts a black shadow. During this time of 
twilight the sand-plain has a weirdly sombre aspect. 
When the night comes in its black shroud or silvery 
moonlight, the supernatural effect is dispelled. 

As the travellers rode down toward the plain, im- 
pressed by this ghostly hour, Mr. Wyville called Ham- 
erton’s attention to two dark objects moving on the 
sand at a distance. 

Hamerton unslung his field-glass, and looked at the 
objects. 

“ A man and a woman,” he said ; “ they are going 
ahead, and the woman carries a load like the natives.” 

Soon after, the sun went down beyond the desert, 
and the plain was dark. The horsemen spurred on, 
oppressed by the level monotony before them. They 
20 


306 


MOONDYNE. 


had forgotten the travellers who were crossing the 
weary waste on foot. 

Suddenly Hamerton’s horse swerved, and a voice in 
the darkness ahead shouted something. It was a com- 
mand from the man on foot, addressed to the woman, 
who, in her weariness and with her burden, had not 
been able to keep pace with him, and had fallen behind. 

“ Come along, curse you ! or 1 11 be all night on 
this plain.” 

The speaker had not seen nor heard the horsemen, 
whose advance was hidden by the night and the soft 
sand: They rode close behind the woman, and heard 
her labored breathing as she increased her speed. 

A sense of acute sorrow struck at once the hearts of 
the riders. They had recognized the voice as that of 
Draper — they knew that the miserable being who 
followed him and received his curses was his wife. 

They rode silently behind her, and halted noiselessly 
as she came up with her husband. He growled at 
her again as she approached. 

“ I am very tired, Samuel,” they heard her say in a 
low, uncomplaining voice ; “ and I fear I ’m not as 
strong as I thought I was.” 

She stood a moment as she spoke, as if relieved by 
the moment’s breathing-space. 

“ Look here,” he said in a hard voice, meant to con- 
vey the brutal threat to her soul ; “ if you can’t keep 
up, you can stay behind. I ’ll stop no more for you ; 
so you can come or stay. Do you hear ? ” 

“ 0, Samuel, you wouldn’t leave me in this terrible 
place alone ! Have pity on me, and speak kindly to 
to me, and I will keep up — indeed, I’ll not delay 
you any more to-night.” 

“ Have pity on you ! ” he hissed between his teeth ; 
“ you brought me to this, and I ’m to have pity on 
you ! ” 

He turned and strode on in the dark. She had 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 307 

heard, but made no reply. She struggled forward, 
though her steps even now were unsteady. 

Mr. Wyville, having first attracted her attention by 
a slight sound, so that she should not be frightened, 
rode up to her, and spoke in a low voice. 

“ I am the Comptroller-General — do not speak. Give 
me your burden. You will find it when you arrive at 
the inn at Pinjarra.” 

She looked up and recognized Mr. Wyville; and 
without a word she slipped her arms from the straps 
of the heavy load, and let him lift it from her. 

“ God bless you, sir ! ” she whispered tremulously ; 
“ I can walk easily now.” 

“ Here,” said Hamerton, handing her his wine-flask, 
“keep this for yourself, and use it if you feel your 
strength failing/’ 

“ Where is your husband going ? ” asked Mr. Wyville. 

“He is going to the Yasse, sir. A whale-ship has 
come in there, and he thinks she will take us off.” 

They rode on, and soon overtook Draper. Mr. Wy- 
ville addressed him in a stern voice. 

“If your wife does not reach Pinjarra to-night in 
safety, I shall hold you accountable. I overheard your 
late speech to her.” 

The surprised caitiff made no reply, and the horse- 
men passed on. They arrived at the little town of 
Pinjarra two hours later. 

Next morning, they found that Draper had arrived. 
Mr. Wyville arranged with the innkeeper and his wife 
for Harriet’s good treatment, and also that a stock- 
man’s team, which was going to Bunbury, should offer 
to take them so far on their way. 

It was a long and fatiguing ride for the horsemen 
that day, but as the night fell they saw before them, 
across an arm of the sea, the lights of a town. 

“ That is Bunbury,” said Mr. Wyville, “the scene of 
our friend Sheridan’s sandalwood enterprise.” 


308 


MOONDYNE. 


They stopped in Bunbury two days, Mr. Wyville 
spending his time in the prison depot, instructing the 
chief warder in the new system. They found Ngarra- 
jil there, with fresh horses. He was to ride with them 
next day towards the Yasse. 

As they were leaving the town, on the afternoon of 
the third day, they met a gang of wood-cutters, carry- 
ing bundles on their backs, coming in from the bush. 

“ Are you going to the Yasse ? ” asked one of the 
wood-cutters, who was resting by the roadside. 

“ Yes.” 

“Well, keep to the eastward of the Koagulup 
Swamp and the salt marshes. The fire is all along the 
other side. We Ve been burnt out up that way.” 

They thanked him, and rode on. Presently, another 
man shouted after them. 

“ There ’s a man and woman gone on before you, 
and if they take the road to the right of the swamp, 
they ’ll be in danger.” 

They i;ode rapidly, striking in on a broad, straight 
road, which had been cleared by the convicts many 
years before. Mr. Wyville was silent and preoccupied. 
Once or twice Hamerton made some passing remark, 
but he did not hear. 

The atmosphere was dense with the low-lying 
smoke, and the heat was almost intolerable. 

A few miles south of Bunbury, the road cut clear 
across a hill. From the summit, they caught their 
first sight of the fire. Mr. Wyville reined his horse, 
and Hamerton and the bushman followed his example. 

Before them stretched a vast sea of smoke, level, 
dense, and grayish-white, unbroken, save here and 
there by the topmost branches of tall trees, that rose 
clear above the rolling cloud that covered all below. 

“ This is Bunbury race-course,” said Mr. Wyville ; 
“ the light sea-breeze keeps the smoke down, and rolls 
it away to the eastward. This fire is extensive.” 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 


309 


“ Where is our road now ? ” asked Hamerton. 

“ Through the smoke ; the fire has not yet reached 
the plain. See : it is just seizing the trees yonder as 
it comes from the valley.” 

Hamerton looked far to the -westward, and saw the 
sheeted flame, fierce red with ghastly streaks of yellow, 
hungrily leaping among the trees in waves of terrific 
length. For the first time in his life he realized the 
dreadful power of the element. It appalled him, as if 
he were looking on a living and sentient destroyer. 

“We must ride swiftly here,” said Mr. Wyville, 
beginning the descent; “but the plain is only three 
miles wide.” 

In a minute they had plunged into the murky air, 
and with heads bent, drove their horses into a hard 
gallop. But the animals understood, and needed 
little pressing. With ears laid back, as if stricken 
with terror, they flew, swift-footed. 

The air was not so deadly as the first breath sug- 
gested. The dense smoke was thickest overhead; 
beneath was a stratum of semi-pure air. The heat 
was far more dangerous than the fumes. 

At last they reached the rising ground again, and 
filled their lungs with a sense of profound relief. The 
prospect was now changed, and for the better. 

The fire in their front appeared only on the right of 
the road. It stretched in a straight line as far as they 
could see, burning the tall forest with a dreadful noise, 
like the sea on a rocky shore, or like the combined 
roar of wild beasts. The wall of flame ran parallel with 
the road, and about a mile distant. 

“ It is stopped there by a salt-marsh,” said Mr. Wy- 
ville ; “ but that ends some miles in our front.” 

“ Koagulup there,” said Ngarra-jil, meaning that 
where the marsh ended the great swamp began. The 
wood-cutters had warned them to keep to the left of 
the swamp. 


310 


MOONDYNE. 


“We must surely overtake those travellers,” said 
Mr. Wyville to Hamerton, “ and before they reach the 
swamp. They might take the road to the right, and 
be lost.” 

They galloped forward again, and as they rode, in 
the falling dusk of night, the fire on the right increased 
to a glare of terrific intensity. They felt its hot breath 
on their faces as if it panted a few yards away. 

Suddenly, when they had ridden about two miles, 
Mr. Wyville drew rein, looked fixedly into the bush, 
and then dismounted. He walked straight to a tall 
tuad-tree by the roadside, and stooped at its base, as 
if searching for something. 

When he rose and came back, he had in his hand a 
long rusty chain, with a lock on one end. 

“ You have keen sight, sir,” said Hamerton, astonished. 

“ I did not see it,” he answered quietly ; “ I knew it 
was there. I once knew a man to be chained to that 
tree.” 

He tied the chain on his horse’s neck, and mounted 
without more words. From that moment he seemed 
to have only one thought — to overtake and warn 
those in front. 

Half an hour later, they drew rein where the roads 
divided, one going to the right, the other to the left of 
the swamp. The travellers were not yet in sight. 

“ Which road have they taken ? ” asked Hamer- 
ton. 

Ngarra-jil had leaped from his horse, and was run- 
ning along the road to the left. He came back with 
a disappointed air and struck in on the other road. 
In half a minute he stopped, and cried out some gut- 
tural word. 

Mr. Wyville looked at Hamerton, and there were 
tears in his eyes. He rode to him, and caught him by 
the arm. 

“Take the other road, with Ngarra-jil, and I will 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 311 

meet you at the farther end of the swamp. It is only 
twelve miles, and I know this bush thoroughly.” 

Hamerton answered only with an indignant glance. 

“ Do not delay, dear friend,” and Wyville’s voice was 
broken as he spoke ; “ for my sake, and for those whose 
•rights are in your hands, do as I say. Take that road, 
and ride on till we meet.” 

“ I shall not do it,” said Hamerton, firmly, and strik- 
ing his horse. “ Come on ! if there is danger, I must 
face it with you.” 

His horse flew wildly forward, terrified by the tre- 
mendous light of the conflagration. Wyville soon 
overtook him, and they rode abreast, the faithful 
bushman a horse’s length behind. 

On their left, a quarter of a mile distant, stretched 
the gloomy swamp, at this season a deadly slough of 
black mud, with shallow pools of water. On their 
right, a mile off, the conflagration leaped and howled 
and crashed its falling trees, as if furious at the barrier 
of marsh that balked it of its prey. The bush be- 
tween the swamp and the fire was brighter than day, 
and the horsemen drove ahead in the white glare. 

They saw the road for miles before them. There 
was no one in sight. 

Five, seven, nine of the twelve miles of swamp were 
passed. Still the road ahead was clear for miles, and 
still no travellers. 

As they neared the end of the ride, a portentous 
change came over the aspect of the fire. Heretofore it 
had burned high among the gum-trees, its red tongues 
licking the upper air. There was literally a wall of 
fire along the farther side of the salt-marsh. How, the 
tree-tops grew dark, while the flame leaped along the 
ground, and raced like a wild thing straight toward the 
swamp. 

“ The fire has leaped the marsh ! ” said Mr. Wyville. 

The whole air and earth seemed instantly to swarm 


312 


MOONDYNE. 


with fear and horror. Flocks of parrots and smaller 
birds whirled screaming, striking blindly against the 
horsemen as they flew. With thunderous leaps, herds 
of kangaroo plunged across the road, and dashed into 
the deadly alternative of the swamp. The earth was 
alive with insect and reptile life, fleeing instinctively 
from the fiery death. Great snakes, with upraised 
heads, held their way, hissing in terror, toward the 
water, while timid bandicoot and wallaby leaped over 
their mortal enemies in the horrid panic. 

The horses quivered with terror, and tried to dash 
wildly in the direction of the swamp. 

“ Hold on, for your life ! ” shouted Wyville to Ham- 
erton. “ Do not leave the road.” 

As they spurred onward, their eyes on the advancing 
fire, their hearts stood still one moment at a piercing 
sound from their rear. It was a woman’s shriek — the 
agonized cry reached them above all the horror of the 
fire. 

Hamerton did not know what to do ; but he saw 
Mr. Wyville rein up, and he did so also. They looked 
back, and a mile behind saw the two unfortunates they 
had come to warn. They had strayed from the road, 
and the riders had passed them. The fire had now 
closed in behind them, and was driving them forward 
with appalling fury. 

“ For God’s sake, ride on !” shouted Mr. Wyville to 
Hamerton, his voice barely heard in the savage roar 
of the conflagration. 

“ And you ? ” cried the other with a knitted brow. 

“ I am going back for these — I must go back. God 
bless you ! ” - 

He struck his spurs into his horse, and the animal 
sprang to the front. But next instant he was flung 
back on his haunches by Ngarra-jil, dismounted, who 
had seized the bridle. The bushman’s eyes blazed, and 
his face was set in determination. 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 


313 


“ No ! no!” he cried in his own language; “you 
shall not ! you shall not ! It is death, Moondyne ! It 
is death ! ” 

Wyville bent forward, broke the man’s grasp, speak- 
ing rapidly to him. His words moved the faithful 
heart deeply, and he stood aside, with raised hands of 
affliction, and let him ride forward. 

Hamerton did not follow ; but he would not try to 
escape. He sat in his saddle, with streaming eyes fol- 
lowing the splendid heroism of the man he loved dear- 
est of all the world. 

It was a ride that could only be faced by audacious 
braveiy. The hot breath of the leaping fire was mov- 
ing the whole bush through which Wyville rode. The 
leaves on the trees overhead shrivelled and smoked. 
The cinders and burning brambles floated and fell on 
man and horse. 

But the rider only saw before him the human beings 
he meant to save. Nearer and nearer he drew ; and 
he shouted, as best he could, to cheer them ; but they 
did not hear. 

He saw with straining eyes the man throw up his 
hands and sink to the earth ; and he saw the woman, 
faithful to the last, bending over him, holding the wine- 
flask to his parched lips. He saw her, too, reach out 
her arms, as if to shield the fallen one from the cruel 
flame that had seized them. Then she breathed the 
air of fire, and sank down. Next moment, Wyville 
leaped from his horse beside them. 

It was too late. The woman had fallen in front of 
the flame, as if to keep it from the face of the man 
who had deserved so little of her devotion ; and still 
the hand of the faithful dead held to his lips the 
draught that might have saved her own life. 

One moment, with quivering face, the strong man 
bent above her, while his lips moved. Then he raised 
his head, and faced his own danger. 


314 


MOONDYNE. 


Already the fire had cut him off; but it was only 
the advanced line of the conflagration that had reached 
the water. It was possible to dash back, by the edge 
of the swamp. 

The awful peril of the moment flashed on him as he 
rode. The horse bounded wildly ahead ; and the 
skilled hand guided him for the best. But, as he flew, 
other scenes rose before the rider even brighter than 
that before him. The present was filled with horror ; 
but the past overtook him and swept over his heart 
like a great wave of peace. 

A tree crashed to the earth across his path. He was 
forced to drive his horse into the fire to get round the 
obstacle. The poor animal reared and screamed, but 
dashed through the fire, with eyes scorched and blinded 
by the flame, now solely dependent on the hand of its 
guide. The rider felt the suffering animal’s pain, and 
recorded it in his heart with sympathy. 

It was that heart’s last record, and it was worthy of 
the broad manhood that had graved it there. He had 
given his life for men — he could pity a dumb animal 
as he died. 

By the side of the swamp he was stricken from the 
saddle by the branch of a falling tree. His body fell 
in the water, his head resting on the tangled rushes of 
the swamp. 

Once, before he died, his opened eyes were raised, 
and he looked above him into the sea and forest of fire. 
But he would not accept that ; but upward, with the 
splendid faith of his old manhood, went the glazing 
eyes till they rested firmly on the eternal calmness of 
the sky. As he looked, there came to him, like a 
vision he had once before dimly seen, a great Thought 
from the deep sky, and held his soul in rapt com- 
munion. But the former dimness was gone ; he saw 
it clearly now for one instant, while all things were 
closing peacefully in upon him. 


THE VALLEY OF THE VASSE. 


315 


Then the man’s head sank peacefully to its couch, 
the limbs stretched out for their long rest, the strong 
heart stopped its labors. 

He was dead. 


They found his body next day, unscathed by the 
fire, preserved by the water in which he had fallen. 
Reverent hands lifted the burden and bore it into the 
dim recesses of the bush, followed by numerous dusky 
mourners. 

One white man stood among the children of the 
forest ; but he had no claim higher than theirs. Above 
the dead stood the white-haired Chief Te-mana-roa, 
bowed in silent grief. A spearwood litter was made, 
and the body placed on it. It was raised by the bush- 
men, who stood awaiting the old chief’s orders. 

Te-mana-roa turned to Hamerton, who alone of all 
the assembly belonged to the dead man’s race. The 
old chief read profound grief in his face, and drew 
closer to him. 

“ This man belonged to us,” he said, laying his dark 
finger on the wide brow of the dead ; “ he was true to 
my people, and they understood and loved him better 
than his own. We shall bury him in the Yasse.’ 

The litter-bearers moved slowly forward, the old 
chief took his place behind the dead, and the bush- 
men with trailed spears followed in sad procession. 

Hamerton’s heart went strongly with the mourners; 
but he could not question their right. Two strange 
spearmen stood near him, to guide him safely through 
the bush. The faithful Ngarra-jil was gone, to mourn 
by the lonely grave of the Moondyne. 


THE END. 












































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Latest New Publications. 


FIGURES OF THE PAST. From the Leaves of Old 
Journals. By Josiah Quincy (Class of 1821, Harvard 
College). i6mo. Price, $1.50 

“There are chapters on life in the Academy at Andover, on Harvard Sixty Years 
Ago, on Commencement Day in 1821, the year of the author’s graduation, and on 
visits to and talks with John Adams, with reminiscences of Lafayette, Judge Story, 
John Randolph, Jackson and other eminent persons, and sketches of old Washington 
and old Boston society. The kindly pen of the author is never dipped in gall — he 
remembers the pleasing aspects of character, and his stories and anecdotes are told in 
the best of humor and leave no sting. The book is of a kind which we are not likely 
to have again, for the men of Mr. Quincy’s generation, those at least who had his 
social opportunities, are nearly all gone. These pictures of old social and political 
conditions are especially suggestive as reminding us that a single life, only lately 
closed, linked us with days, events and men that were a part of our early history and 
appear remote because of the multitude of changes that have transformed society in 
the interval.” — Bosto?i Journal. 


WHIST, OR BUMBLEPUPPY? By Pembridge. 

From the Second London Edition. i6mo. Cloth. Price, .50 

Definition of Bumblepuppy — Bumblepuppy is persisting to play whist, either 
in utter ignorance of all its known principles, or in defiance of them, or both. 

“‘Whist, or Bumblepuppy?’ is one of the most entertaining, and at the same 
time one of the soundest books on whist ever written. Its drollery may blind some 
readers to the value of its advice; no man who knows anything about whist, how- 
ever, will fail to read it with interest, and few will fail to read it with advantage. 
Upon the ordinary rules of whist, Pembridge supplies much sensible and thor- 
oughly amusing comment. The best player in the world may gain from his ob- 
servations, and a mediocre player can scarcely find a better counsellor. There is 
scarcely an opinion expressed with which we do not coincide .”— London Sunday 
Times . 


RECOLLECTIONS OF DANTE GABRIEL ROS- 
SETTI. By T. Hall Caine. With Portrait. One vol. 

8vo. Cloth, gilt. Price, #3.00 

“Mr.Caine’s ‘Recollections of Rossetti’ throws light upon many events in Ros- 
setti’s life over which there hung a veil of mystery A book that must 

survive .” — London A thenceum . 

* * * Our publications are for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent 
post-paid on receipt of advertised price. 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 


PEARLS OF THE FAITH ; or, Islam’s Rosary; being 
the “Ninety-nine Beautiful Names of Allah.” By 
Edwin Arnold. i 6 mo. Cloth. Uniform with “The 
Light of Asia.” Price, $1.00 

“Mr. Edwin Arnold has finished his Oriental trilogy. The first part is ‘The 
Light of Asia.’ The second part is ‘The Indian Song of Songs.’ The trilogy is 
completed by ‘ Pearls of the Faith,’ in which the poet tells the beads of a pious Moslem. 
The Mohammedan has a chaplet of three strings, each string containing 33 beads, 
each bead representing one of the ‘Ninety-nine beautiful names of Allah.’ These 
short poems have no connection ; they vary in measure, but are all simple and without 
a touch of obscurity. All the legends and instructions inculcate the gentle virtues 
that make life lovely — courtesy, humility, hospitality, care for the poor and the ill, 
kindness to dumb animals, perfect manners in social intercourse. Many of the poems 
are suitable for Christian Sunday-schools. . . . The view of Mohammedanism 

given by these poems is very pleasant ; the precepts for life here are sweet and noble ; 
the promises for heaven are definite ; they appeal directly to the love of what is 
known as pleasure in this life, and that must be renounced in this life, but in the next 
it may be enjoyed to the uttermost without evil consequences.” — Boston Daily 
A dvertiser . 


ART AND NATURE IN ITALY. By Eugene Ben- 
son. i 6 mo. Cloth. Price, $1.00 

“Mr. Benson’s long residence in that country has operated to imbue his mind with 
the spirit of the region. He treats con amore of its art in its historical and in its 
modern aspects, and he presents its scenes of nature in their most fascinating form. 
Mr. Benson is not only one of the most appreciative of students and observers, but 
lie has a rare grace of manner as well. He writes little of late, but his productions 
are always acceptable to cultivated people.” — Saturday Evening Gazette. 

“This book is a record of impressions and reflections on art and nature in Italy. 
The great beauty and the historic associations of the country are set forth in very 
pleasing language by one who fully appreciates them. He particularly describes 
those portions of that beautiful land in which its most distinguished artists have 
lived, showing how its natural features, its enchanting scenery, must have had a 
molding influence upon their tastes and their works. His estimates of art and artists 
and his criticisms are, in the main, just and satisfactory.” — Western Christian 
A dvocate. 

NORSE STORIES, RETOLD FROM THE EDDAS. 

By Hamilton W. Mabie. i 6 mo. Cloth. Price, . . $1.00 

“ Is one of the most charming little books for children I have ever seen. The 
myths are splendidly told, and every household in America ought to have a copy of 
the book.” — Prof. R. B. Anderson. 

“The old Norse stories bear being told again and again. Mr. Mabie keeps their 
freshness, fascination and simplicity in his new version of them, and one reads with 
'inabated pleasure of Odin’s search for wisdom, of the wooing of Gerd, and of all 
the strange adventures of Thor, of the beautiful Balder, of the wicked Loke, and, 
best of all, of the new earth that was created after long years of darkness, in which 
there was no sun, no moon, no stars, no Asgard, no Hel, no Jotunheim; in which 
gods, giants, monsters and men were all dead — the earth upon which the gods look 
lovingly, upon which men are industrious and obedient, and know that the All-Father 
helps them.” — Boston Daily Advertiser. 


*** Our publications are for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent 
post-paid on receipt of advertised price. 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 


A LITTLE PILGRIM. Reprinted from Macmillan’s 

Magazine. i6mo. Cloth. Red edges. Price, .... $ .75 

“An exquisitely written little sketch is found in that remarkable production, ‘The 
Little. Pilgrim,’ which is just now attracting much attention both in Europe and 
America. It is highly imaginative in its scope, representing one of the world-worn 
and weary pilgrims . of our earthly sphere as entering upon the delights of heaven 
after death. The picture of. heaven is drawn with the rarest delicacy and refinement, 
and is in agreeable contrast in this respect to the material sketch of this future home 
furnished in Miss Stuart Phelps’s well-remembered ‘Gates Ajar.’ The book will be 
a balm to the heart of many readers who are in accord with the faith of its author; 
and to others its reading will afford rare pleasure from the exceeding beauty and 
affecting simplicity of its almost perfect literary style.” — Saturday Evening Gazette. 

“ The life beyond the grave, when the short life in this world is ended, is to many 
a source of dread — to all a mystery. ‘A Little Pilgrim’ has apparently solved it, 
and, indeed, it seems on reading this little book as if there were a great probability 
about it. A soft, gentle tone pervades its every sentence, and one cannot read it 
without feeling refreshed and strengthened.” — The Alta California. 


THE GREAT EPICS OF MEDIAEVAL GERMANY. 

An Outline of their Contents and History. By George 
Theodore Dippold, Professor at Boston University and 
Wellesley College. i6mo. Cloth. Price, . . . . ^ $1.50 

Professor Francis J. Child, of Harvard College, says : “ It is an excellent account 
of the chief German heroic poems of the Middle Ages, accompanied with spirited 
translations. It is a book which gives both a brief and popular, and also an accurate, 
account of this important section of literature, and will be very welcome ■here and at 
other colleges.” 

“No student of modem literature, and above all no student who aims to under- 
stand the literary development of Europe in its fullest range, can leave this rich and 
ample world of early song unexplored. To all such Professor Dippold’s book will 
have the value of a trustworthy guide. . . . It has all the interest of a 

chapter in the growth of the human mind into comprehension of the universe and of 
itself, and it has the pervading charm of the vast realm of poetry through which it 
moves.” — Christian Union. 


MY HOUSEHOLD OF PETS. By Theophile Gautier. 

Translated from the French by Susan Coolidge. With 
illustrations by Frank Rogers. i6mo. Cloth. Price, . $1.25 

“ This little book will interest lovers of animals, and the quaint style in which 
M. Gautier tells of the wisdom of his household pets will, please every one. The 
translator, too, is happy in her work, for she has succeeded in rendering the text into 
English without loss of the French tone, which makes it fascinating. These house- 
hold pets consisted of white and black cats, dogs, chameleons, lizards, magpies, and 
horses, each of which has a character and story of its own. Illustrations and a pretty 
binding add to the attractions of the volume.” — Worcester Spy. 

“The ease and elegance of Theophile Gautier’s diction is wonderful, and the 
translator has preserved the charm of the French author with far more than the 
average fidelity. ‘ My Household of Pets ’ is a book which can be read with pleasure 
by young and old. It is a charming volume. — St. Louis Spectator. 


*** Our publications are for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent 
post-paid on receipt of advertised price. 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 


THE JEAN INGELOW BIRTHDAY BOOK. With 
red-line border and divisions, 12 illustrations and portrait. 


i6mo. Cloth, gilt and illuminated. Price $1.00 

Full calf or morocco, $3. 50 


“ This is a dainty little volume having a selection from Jean Ingelow for each day 
of the year. The extracts are of both prose and verse. There are graceful illustra- 
tions for each month suited in subject to the season. The book will be welcomed by 
admirers of this writer and must prove a popular gift-book for the birthday season.” — 
Chicago A dvance. 


“We have seen no more tasteful book this year than ‘The Jean Ingelow Birthday 
Book,’ which Messrs. Roberts Brothers publish. I t is somewhat larger in form than 
are the birthday books with which the public is familiar, is printed on very fine paper, 
and has a page wfth the usual quotations and the usual blanks, the whole encircled 
with a carmine line border, the date of the days of the months being printed in the 
same color. The work is illustrated with handsome engravings, and has a steel- 
engraved portrait of Jean Ingelow. The binding is a real gem. _ Nothing could well 
be more attractive in the way of cloth ornament than is its combination of design and 
color.” — Saturday Evening Gazette . 


UNDER THE SUN. By Phil. Robinson, the new 

English Humorist. With a Preface by Edwin Arnold, 

author of “The Light of Asia.” i6mo. Cloth. Price, $1.50 

This is a volume of essays, humorous and pathetic, of incidents, scenes, and 
objects grouped under the heads : Indian Sketches, The Indian Seasons, Unnatural 
History, Idle Hours under the Punkah. 

“Under the Sun,” by Phil. Robinson, is one of the most delightful of recent 
books. The style is fascinating in its strength and picturesqueness, and there is now 
and then a delicious quaintness that recalls Charles Lamb. A volume such as this is 
rare in our day, when the art of essay writing is almost lost and forgotten. Fresh- 
ness, vigor, humor, pathos, graphic power, a keen love for nature, a gentle love for 
animals, and a pleasing originality are among the more charming characteristics of 
this work, which may be read again and again ■with renewed satisfaction. Its scenes 
are laid in India, and whether the author discourses of the elephant, the rhinoceros, 
some bird that has attracted his attention, a tree, or a flower; whether he describes 
an exciting hunt ; or tells a marvellous story; whether he moralizes or gives free rein 
to his fancy, he is always brilliant, fascinating, vivacious and masterly. It is difficult 
to write of this remarkable book without superlatives; but it is not too much to insist 
that it is impossible to exaggerate its peculiar merits, or to bestow too large a share of 
praise upon it. It is not a book for the few, but for the many, and all will find delight 
in its perusal.” — Saturday Evening Gazette . 


** * Our publications are for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent 
post-paid on receipt of advertised price. 


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